


the gift

by Eliane



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Established Relationship, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliane/pseuds/Eliane
Summary: "Rafa doesn’t know what wakes him – if it’s his phone or the pain."
Relationships: Mirka Federer/Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal/María Francisca Perello, Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 35
Kudos: 116





	the gift

**Author's Note:**

> first of all, thanks to marianna for the support & for her advice & feedback on this even though i only listened to half of it. i do appreciate you not letting me go mad <3
> 
> thanks to carlo, as always, for the proofreading & the advice! 
> 
> thanks to everybody who, knowingly or unknowingly, helped me with this & answered my questions. especially to j. & e. for being good friends when i wasn't. 
> 
> since there seems to be no consensus when it comes to mery's name, i decided to go with mery and stick with it.  
although i do like to stay as close to canon as possible when i write, this is very much a piece of fiction. it is intended to be read as such & not as a personal commentary on those people's lives. i just want to write stories about roger & rafa being in love. all remaining mistakes etc are mine. xx

“Let me tell you a story about love.”  
Richard Siken, “War of the foxes”, in _War of the foxes_.

** _Acapulco, 2018._ **

Rafa doesn’t know what wakes him – if it’s his phone or the pain. For a moment, caught in this strange state between sleep and consciousness, he can’t distinguish the long, continuous vibrations of his phone from the pulsing ache in his right hip. It all seems to blend into one unpleasant sensation. Then, the phone stops vibrating and Rafa is left with only the familiar and unmistakable feeling of pain. He opens his eyes.

It must be quite early; the room is still dark. Rafa sighs and, with one hand, starts groping around the mattress in search of his phone, hoping the call was indeed urgent. After a few seconds, his fingers stumble on cool, smooth metal and Rafa brings his phone close to his face. He ignores the barrage of texts – most of them probably asking him how he is doing, which he doesn’t want to answer at all right now – to concentrate on his missed calls. The latest one is from Benito. Rafa blinks. Why would he need to phone him at this hour? If it was so pressing, couldn’t he just knock on Rafa’s door? Trying not to pay attention to the sense of unease at the back of his throat, Rafa calls back.

“Rafa, hey. Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Rafa says. “It’s early.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Benito doesn’t sound very sorry. “Did you speak to Roger recently?”

“I spoke to him yesterday,” Rafa answers, smoothing out any hint of weariness from his voice.

“Before or after the awards?”

_Both_, Rafa almost replies before stopping himself. It won’t help. “Just tell me. What is it?” he asks instead.

“You saw his speech?”

“No,” Rafa says. “And he didn’t tell me anything about it, if that’s what you want to know.”

The second time they had called each other, it had been for Rafa to let Roger know he had to withdraw from Acapulco and couldn’t tell yet, if he’d be fit to play Indian Wells and Miami. It had not been sad, exactly, but it had been heavy, the thought of not getting those two – nearly three – weeks together weighing on their minds. There had been no mention of a speech at all.

On the other side of the line, Benito sighs. “I’m sending you a link. Please watch it. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

As soon as Rafa opens the video he gets it, why Benito chose to call instead of coming here. Why he wanted Rafa to be on his own to watch this. It’s fine, in the beginning. Roger is emotional but he always is in such circumstances. That’s not the problem, although it does make Rafa’s heart clench a little. The issue is that he starts talking about Rafa. Before he talks about his team. Before he talks about anyone else. _It’s because of a guy like him, I think I’m a better player._ _He’s an incredible player, incredible friend and incredible athlete. _There’s the slightest pause between incredible and friend and Rafa winces. It would be indistinguishable to most people but Rafa speaks Roger’s language fluently and it’s easy for him to discern Roger’s frustration in that silence. His hurt at not being able to say more.

Rafa pauses the video; he’s seen enough. He sits up against his pillows, hoping it’ll help alleviate some of the throbbing pain. The painkillers are in the bathroom, where he left them the night before, and he can’t bring himself to walk the few meters separating him from them. Then, Benito calls back.

“I watched it,” Rafa says, immediately after answering.

“You need to talk to him,” is the response. Which, Rafa guesses, has been the purpose of this morning call all along.

It won’t do any good or change anything but there’s no point in arguing about it. So Rafa replies, “I will.”

“Good.” As if Rafa still needed to be convinced, Benito adds, “It’s not him he’s hurting when he does that…”

“Don’t,” Rafa interrupts because he can’t think about that. Not now.

There’s a silence, one Rafa refuses to breach, before Benito speaks again. “Listen, maybe… Maybe it would be better for the two of you to avoid being seen together in public for a while.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Rafa repeats.

“Okay. See you later then.”

“See you later,” Rafa says, before hanging up.

He considers calling Roger right away but it’s almost seven in the morning, which means noon in Europe and Roger was supposed to leave for Italy, to practice early. He’s probably already on the road, somewhere Rafa can’t reach him. Instead, Rafa plays the video again.

It’s a small indulgence. He’ll just do it once – listen to the words Roger intended for him to hear and let himself revel in them. There’s a part of him, a distant, feeble one, suggesting maybe he should be angry with Roger. Annoyed, at least. For saying things Rafa doesn’t even allow himself to think about, for coming so close to crossing a line that could break them both. But he isn’t angry and he isn’t annoyed either. He understands the kind of want that underlies Roger’s words and actions. It’s one Rafa knows well when it comes to winning trophies. And one he has learnt to suppress when it comes to Roger. He promised himself, a long time ago, he wouldn’t wish for more than he could get. Not if he wanted to stay sane.

Truth is, he does have a lot. He has some of Roger’s brightest parts, the sheer joy of winning together, and some of Roger’s darkest ones – breaking his heart again and again because that’s what they do. He doesn’t have most of Roger’s time but the same could be said about his own. What he has is more important to him than Roger devoting every second of his days to him: the knowledge that, in spite of everything, Roger keeps carving out a space for Rafa in his life, one that’s Rafa’s only. In this space, they have their routines and their habits. Their shared jokes and their wordless conversations. In this space, they have a freedom it took them years to acquire, that they had to fight for – sometimes each other – and it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t always feel enough. That it gets suffocating. Rafa has trained himself not to want with the same ruthlessness he’s put into everything else he does and it has worked because he’s very good at denying himself. Roger isn’t.

Roger wants and wants and wants. And of all the things he wants – trophies, a family, to be loved – Rafa is the one thing he can’t quite have. Or not in the way he would like to.

_You need to talk to him_.

Rafa has no idea what he’s going to say, though. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to play Miami, let alone Indian Wells, if he’ll get to see Roger at all. In the background, the video is still playing, Roger’s voice familiar and comforting to Rafa in a way few other things are. A tennis racket in his hand, maybe, or the blue of the Mediterranean. Rafa exhales.

The pain in his hip doesn’t relent.

***

“Does it hurt?” Roger asks.

His voice is so low it almost seems to have acquired a corporal form and Rafa imagines he can feel its weight against his skin. His _naked_ skin. Distracted as he is, it takes him a moment to understand what Roger is asking and a few more for his brain to come up with an answer.

“No,” he manages to let out. It’s kind of shaky but considering that Roger’s mouth is very close to his cock he counts it as a win. “Is not hurting now.”

“Okay,” Roger says, lips brushing against Rafa’s hipbone. “Just making sure.”

Rafa considers lifting his head from where it’s resting against the pillows to glare at Roger but dismisses the idea immediately. He can’t move. He can’t think. There’s nothing left in him but want and what he wants is for Roger to stop teasing and get on with it. To touch him. It’s been way too long, really. Weeks with nothing but Roger’s voice on the phone and memories getting more and more distant, and maybe Rafa is going a bit crazy.

“Roger…” he pleads, unbothered by how wrecked he sounds.

Roger chuckles but when he speaks it’s soft, soothing. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Rafa tries. He tries to gather his discarded thoughts and put them into words. But he can only focus on the distance between Roger’s hands and his own skin, between Roger’s mouth – next to his neck now – and his body. 

“Anything you want,” Roger goes on, as if unaware that it’s driving Rafa mad. He isn’t, of course. “But you need to tell me.” His breath is hot against Rafa’s neck and goosebumps are forming on his flesh.

“I…” he starts but Roger’s lips finally touch him, pressing against the spot at the juncture of Rafa’s neck and his collarbone and the words vanish. It’s not much, a faint caress, but it’s still so much better than nothing. Rafa sighs. Then, one of Roger’s hands comes to rest against Rafa’s stomach, fingers curling around his waist and Rafa’s mind goes blank under the competing sensations. The mouth on his neck, light, so light and the hand on his belly, firm and sure, keeping him in place even though there’s nothing Rafa wants less than to run away from this. From Roger.

Thankfully, Roger decides to take pity on Rafa. “Do you want my mouth?”

Rafa shakes his head and slides one arm behind Roger’s back, his hand grabbing the nape of Roger’s neck. If it’s in an attempt to bring Roger closer to him or if it’s to hold on to him, Rafa couldn’t tell.

“My hands?” Roger continues, his lips at the corner of Rafa’s mouth.

Rafa almost says yes. Roger’s hand is still there, right above his hip, long fingers gripping Rafa and he’s aware of exactly how _good _they can be. The idea of having those fingers inside him, pleasuring him until he’s sobbing with it, makes his cock twitch. But it wouldn’t be enough. Not tonight. So Rafa shakes his head again and Roger’s lips abandon his mouth, having not quite kissed him.

“You want me to fuck you?” Roger murmurs into Rafa’s ear and something very much like relief unfurls in his chest. He exhales sharply and says,

“Yes. _Please._”

“Okay,” Roger says. “Okay.” His voice wavers – the tiniest bit but it’s enough for Rafa to know that this is affecting him just as much.

“You have…?”

“Yeah,” Roger answers. “Give me a minute.”

Rafa nods, glad he doesn’t have to move. Everything that isn’t Roger seems complicated, distant and foreign. He doesn’t know what time it is, how long it’s been since he arrived in this Californian hotel room. He doesn’t much care.

Roger comes back, carrying condoms and lube. The mattress dips next to Rafa and then there’s a hand on his thigh, gently pushing it open. Rafa complies, spreading his legs so that Roger can settle between them and, soon enough, Rafa feels one of those fingers entering him. He lets out a sound that’s closer to a whine than a moan and Roger asks,

“Okay?”

“Yeah. No, ah, no stopping…”

“Bossy,” Roger laughs, dropping a kiss on Rafa’s belly. Rafa doesn’t feel bossy, though, he feels desperate – to get all of Roger inside him. To forget, for one moment, that they are two separate beings.

“More…”

“Anything you want,” Roger says, repeating what he said earlier as he gets a second finger inside Rafa. It leaves Rafa breathless, preventing him from uttering something stupid like, _I want you_. He has Roger. He does. Maybe not the way they would both like to, but he has him in ways no one else does. And Roger has him. Then, as if reading Rafa’s mind, Roger whispers,

“I’ve got you.”

He keeps pressing kisses against Rafa’s skin between each word, as if it wasn’t enough to be inside Rafa, as if he needed Rafa to be surrounded by him. As if he couldn’t bear the idea of leaving one inch of Rafa untouched, unmarked, unkissed.

“Now, please,” Rafa urges.

He doesn’t have to say it twice. Roger retrieves his fingers and, before Rafa can even begin to mourn their loss, he feels them being replaced by Roger’s cock. Rafa’s breath hitches in anticipation and then Roger finally, finally pushes inside him.

“Good?” Roger asks, as he sets up a rhythm and Rafa can only moan in response because this is it. This is what Rafa’s been craving. Roger inside him, Roger fucking him. He has missed it – so much that he can barely comprehend how he’s been able to function without it. How he’ll have to again, as soon as tomorrow.

“Roger…”

He doesn’t manage to say more but Roger seems to understand what he’s asking for anyway and takes one of Rafa’s hands in his, linking their fingers together. It makes the position more difficult to sustain but neither of them cares. “I’m here,” Roger says, and it’s hard to tell if it’s Rafa or himself he’s trying to reassure. Maybe both. “I’m here.”

Roger speeds up his thrusts and Rafa lets himself be engulfed by wave after wave of pleasure, abandoning himself to it. When Rafa starts shaking underneath him, Roger disentangles their fingers to close his hand around Rafa’s cock. He strokes it once, twice and it’s all Rafa can take. He comes and Roger follows him, muttering nonsensical things like _you are so so beautiful_ and _I can’t get enough of you_.

“Kiss me,” Rafa demands when he can talk again. Roger huffs out a laugh but obeys without protest. It’s a soft, languid kiss, with no other purpose than for the two of them to luxuriate in it. In each other.

After, they rearrange themselves so that Rafa is lying on top of Roger, his cheek against Roger’s chest. One of Roger’s hands is playing with the messy strands of Rafa’s hair and Rafa’s eyelids flutter shut under the caress. He’s warm. Satiated. Happy.

For the first time since he was woken up at dawn by a call, the vague sense of dread obstructing his throat seems to recede.

***

The next time Rafa opens his eyes the room is almost completely plunged in the dark, the sole source of light the faint glow of a bedside lamp. It takes him a few moments to gather his memories, how after withdrawing from Indian Wells and Miami he left for California instead of following his team to the Bahamas. It wasn’t planned but the thought of not seeing Roger until after Miami at the earliest was not… Well, it wasn’t something Rafa was looking forward to and he’s very glad he didn’t have to. Even if it meant flying all the way here just for one night. Considering the way Roger is holding him, fingers digging into Rafa’s flesh a bit too hard even in his sleep, he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual.

Rafa’s face is still pressed against Roger’s chest and he can hear the beat of his heart, slow and steady. It’s a comforting sound and Rafa wishes he could stay like this a while longer but he needs to shower. Slowly, careful not to wake Roger, he gets out of his arms and leaves the bed for the bathroom. He takes his time showering, revelling in the knowledge that he doesn’t have anything pressing to do after, that there’s no obligation awaiting him. Only Roger.

When Rafa comes back into the bedroom, Roger is awake and sitting on the bed, a bunch of pillows piled between his back and the headboard. He’s frowning at his phone but lifts his head up as soon as he hears Rafa.

“Hey,” Roger says, greeting him with a smile.

Rafa smiles back. “Hey.”

“I ordered room service while you were showering.” Roger points to the table on the other side of the room. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“I am,” Rafa says. “Thank you.”

He goes to the sofa first, where he left his travel bag, in search of something to wear that isn’t a hotel towel. He finds a pair of sweatpants that should do and is about to take his towel off when two arms encircle him from behind. Roger’s hands slip beneath it, right above Rafa’s pelvis.

“Think food can wait?” Roger asks, kissing the tender spot behind Rafa’s ear.

“I…” Rafa begins. He’s not sure what he meant to answer, exactly, but it becomes a moot point when his stomach emits a loud rumble, one they both hear clearly. Rafa can’t help it, he bursts out laughing and Roger follows him. “No,” he manages to say between two fits of laughter, turning around to face Roger, “I do not think the food waits.” Then, their eyes meet and it sets them off again, both of them laughing until it hurts.

“Fine,” Roger giggles, once they’ve calmed down. “Food first, then I debauch you.”

Rafa raises an eyebrow. “I think you debauch me a long time ago, no?” he replies, sitting down at the table.

“Please,” Roger grimaces a little, “don’t remind me. I ordered pasta, is that okay?”

“Is perfect,” Rafa says. He fills both their plates and, for a while, neither of them talks.

“You want some dessert?” Roger asks when Rafa puts his fork down.

“No.” Rafa shakes his head. “I am good, thank you.”

They don’t move. They stay like this, grinning at each other, knees brushing under the table, content and slightly drowsy. This is the time to broach the topic. Before they go back to bed, before they lose themselves in one another again. Rafa doesn’t want to do it. It’s a pointless discussion, one that can only hurt them. But he said he would talk to Roger and he knows it’s the first thing Benito will ask him about when he lands tomorrow. So he says,

“I watched your speech.” His heart is beating fast and the anxiety he has been able to ignore for the past few hours is back, making it hard to breathe.

“Oh?” Roger wonders.

“Benito sends me the video. He was not happy.”

Rafa can’t tell what he expected – for Roger to get defensive or angry, maybe – but Roger merely shrugs.

“I got a bit carried away. So what? I’m still allowed to talk about you, as far as I know.”

“You are,” Rafa agrees. “But…” He pauses, trying to find a way to put this into words that won’t sound too bad. He doesn’t find any, though, so he just goes on, “You speak about me a lot.”

“Yes, well…” Roger replies, and here comes the defensiveness Rafa has been dreading, “I happen to be in love with you.”

It’s kind of awful, to hear Roger say it like this, and Rafa recoils.

“I’m sorry,” Roger says immediately, taking Rafa’s hand in his and squeezing it in comfort. “I’m sorry. But what does it matter, you know? People don’t care. They forget. It’s not…”

It’s not about the people, though. It’s about Roger and how he _wants_ and all the things they can’t have. Those things Rafa so ruthlessly forbids himself to think about. But Rafa can’t tell him that.

“Anyway,” Roger continues when Rafa doesn’t pick the conversation back up, “I already got a scolding from Tony. No need for another one.”

“He also thinks is better if people do not see us together for now.”

“He’s full of bright ideas, huh?” Roger says, but there’s no heat in his tone anymore. If anything, he sounds defeated. Rafa hates it.

“We do not have to decide now, no? I am not playing right now and you are not gonna play clay. We only see each other at Wimbledon and this is in a long time. We can decide then.”

Rogers nods but his shoulders are hunched and Rafa doesn’t know how to make it _better_. “Did you like it?” Roger asks, all of a sudden. “The speech, I mean.”

Rafa remembers listening to Roger’s voice in his hotel room, trying to forget about the pain in his hip, about the fear that he would have to miss more tournaments, and how soothing it was. He remembers Roger’s words, the smallest pause between _incredible _and _friend_.

“Yes,” he says. “I liked it.”

Roger smiles at that and, pretending he can’t see it’s a bit pained, Rafa smiles back. “Worth it then,” Roger says and Rafa isn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. He does neither, just holds Roger’s hand tighter. “Come on,” Roger starts again after a silence. “We should go back to bed.”

“Sure,” Rafa agrees. And, to lighten the mood, he adds, “You need a lot of rest before you play with Bill Gates, no?”

Roger laughs and, this time, it doesn’t seem forced. “Yeah, that’s not before Monday,” he says, getting up. He’s still holding Rafa’s hand in his and Rafa gets up too, following his lead. “And you could be playing with Bill Gates too, you know, you only need to give me a date.”

“I will,” Rafa promises.

They don’t waste any time. As soon as Rafa’s back hits the mattress Roger covers him with his body, one hand tilting Rafa’s head up so that he can kiss him. It’s not soft or languid anymore. Roger’s mouth on his is demanding, devouring and there’s a desperate edge to each stroke of his tongue, as if this was his last chance to kiss Rafa. Rafa responds in kind, holding on to Roger, his nails digging into Roger’s shoulder blades. They’re usually careful not to leave marks but, right now, Rafa can’t be bothered. He wants to bring Roger closer, closer, closer still. Until there’s not one inch of space left between them. Until they both believe that this is enough. That they are enough.

***

Just before going to sleep, Roger whispers, “I’ll miss you.”

“Yes. Me too,” Rafa whispers back. As if, by not saying the words too loudly, they could take away some of the pain they carry.

“Maybe I’ll grow a beard,” Roger jokes and Rafa lets out a laugh. “Would you still like me with a beard?”

Rafa doesn’t think he could ever not like Roger, no matter how he looks, but decides it’s probably wiser to keep that for himself.

“You grow the beard and I tell you if I like it,” Rafa answers, kissing Roger’s jaw covered with today’s stubble.

“Deal.”

And that’s it. They fall asleep, Roger curled around Rafa, their fingers entwined. Then, when morning arrives, Rafa leaves.

***

After a few days in the Bahamas, Rafa goes home. Nothing feels different, at first. As much as Rafa dislikes it, they’ve done this more times than he can count – Rafa getting injured, Rafa having to skip a tournament, Rafa being left behind while Roger and the tour go on. So he passes more exams, nods when told that he’s supposed to do nothing but rest for at least a couple weeks, which means no fishing and no golf, and mentally draws up a list of all the shows he wants to catch up with on Netflix. 

He speaks to Roger every day. It’s either early in the morning for him and late at night for Roger, when the kids have gone to sleep and Roger can talk for more than five minutes without being interrupted. Or it’s early in the morning for Roger and late in the afternoon for Rafa, when the restlessness of a whole day without being able to train or do anything, really, starts to take its toll on him. Roger seems fine, as far as Rafa can judge from so far away. Happy to go back to the competition and happier to be back to number one, although he doesn’t say that last one out loud.

Then the tournament begins and it quickly becomes clear that Rafa’s assessment of the situation was wrong. It’s not so much the results of the matches, which are fine, as the fleeting look Rafa sometimes catches on Roger’s face – as if he would rather be anywhere but here. The beard, which Roger does grow, doesn’t help, although Rafa finds out that he likes it. Quite a lot.

“You look good,” Rafa tells Roger when he asks him the question. “Very good,” he adds, blushing a bit and all of a sudden he is glad they’re not facetiming. “But it also makes you look a little sad, I think.”

“So what you’re saying is, I have a great future as a depressed writer?”

“It depends, no? What are you gonna write?”

“My memoirs?”

Rafa snorts. “Maybe is better if you stick with tennis, Roger.”

It’s hard to talk to Roger about his mood, though. Every time Rafa tries to broach the topic, Roger makes a joke or derails the conversation and – fine. Maybe it has nothing to do with them. Roger still reaches the final and, in spite of the loss, it can’t be called a bad week.

“Just one of those matches,” Roger says, after the final. It’s late at night for Roger, this time, and early morning for Rafa. “You know…”

“Yeah,” Rafa says because he does. “You are gonna be okay?”

“Sure,” and Rafa can almost hear Roger shrug, “I’m fine.” It is not what Rafa asked, but he doesn’t point it out.

And then, as he’s done all week, Roger changes the subject. “They asked me about the beard, you know. During the presser.”

Rafa laughs. “Really?”

“Yeah, they wanted to know if there was a particular reason for it.” 

“What did you say?”

“Oh, you know, that it was to seduce you.”

Rafa’s heart skips a beat. “Roger…”

“Don’t worry,” Roger replies, “I didn’t. I said there was no reason for it at all.” But there’s a hint of something in his voice, something Rafa can’t quite identify. Regret, maybe.

“You are keeping it?” he asks.

“No. I need to shave it for Chicago tomorrow. Can’t do promo with a beard.”

“Yeah,” Rafa acknowledges. “Maybe you grow it again when we see each other.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Roger says, before falling silent. They haven’t discussed it yet – when they’ll see each other next. Everything is so uncertain and even the remote possibility that they might not get any time together before Wimbledon is too suffocating to contemplate, let alone speak out loud. They used to be better at it. At being apart. They’ve always been a bit co-dependent and it was never easy but it was _easier_. Nowadays, Rafa just feels tired and he’s pretty sure he can discern the same exhaustion on Roger’s features, at times, or in his words. Or, in this case, in his silence. Rafa hears a noise that sounds like a sharp inhale, before Roger goes on. “How’s the hip doing?”

“Is better,” Rafa says. “I am seeing the doctor on Wednesday, I hope I can start training again soon.”

It’s been a slow process, receiving treatment every day, working on exercises that don’t put any strain on his leg, waiting for the pain to recede and for his body to become _his_ again, but it’s getting better.

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

On Wednesday, Rafa is cleared to go back to training and the relief is almost overwhelming. So Miami begins and Rafa finds himself back on a tennis court too. His tennis court. He’s aware the path to recovery is still long and difficult but at least he can do something about it now.

Then, on Saturday, Roger loses his opening match.

“I don’t know what happened,” Roger says, answering the question Rafa didn’t have the courage to ask. “But I’d rather just forget about it.”

And there it is, bleeding in each of Roger’s words. The exhaustion Rafa has no idea how to cure. Instead he says, voice soft, “For sure.”

“Is there… Is there any chance I could whisk you away for a few days? Might as well use all that free time.”

Rafa’s throat tightens. “I can’t. I have to train, no? And Pico is coming to Madrid on Monday.” Which means he’s free tomorrow. Or maybe today, Rafa hadn’t noticed how late it was. He hardly hesitates before saying, “You can come here. Tomorrow evening, I can. Is just one night but…”

“Yeah,” Roger interrupts Rafa, preventing him from babbling. “I can… I can do that, I think. I…” He lets out a laugh but there’s something painful in it, something harsh and sad Rafa wishes he could capture and make disappear. “I miss you. It’s been kind of awful.”

And, yes. Rafa knew that, no matter how he tried to find other reasons for Roger’s behaviour. How could he not, when he’s been missing Roger awfully too?

“Come,” Rafa says. “I wait for you.”

***

Clay season keeps Rafa so busy he barely has time to miss Roger.

It starts with Valencia. It’s a good test – to see how his body is holding up, to find his game. It’s also a special time, not being alone in victory or defeat, sharing those with people he loves. He can’t help but bask in it, in the atmosphere, in the people chanting and screaming. He doesn’t linger on the fact that the last time he felt something like this, it was in Prague, Roger next to him, the two of them united in front of the world in a way they had never been allowed to be before. Instead, he banishes every shade of blue from his mind until the only colour left is bright, Spanish red.

After Valencia, it’s back to normal, almost. The same familiar places, the same expectations on his shoulders. He trains, he plays, he wins matches. He attends events he’s expected to attend, some with his friends, some with Mery. He smiles. He lets his picture be taken by professional photographers, by paparazzi, by fans. He wins in Monte Carlo, then in Barcelona. He answers the same, repetitive questions during his pressers. Of course he’s happy for the victory. No it isn’t easy to win after not being able to play for nearly four months, even on clay, even for him. He moves on to Madrid, which tends to be more complicated, and where he eventually loses. It hurts. Losing always does, even more so when he’s defending a title. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it for too long: there is Rome to be played and so he goes on. To the next city, the next tournament. The next match.

Clay season keeps Rafa so busy he barely has time to miss Roger.

He still does, though. Whenever things quiet down for a moment, whenever something reminds him of Roger. In Monte Carlo, a street where they kissed once, late at night, Roger muttering _there’s no one to see us_ and Rafa giving in, unable to pretend he didn’t want it. Roger’s mouth on his and the vast, starry sky above them. In Madrid, it’s a restaurant where they ate a few times, whenever they could snatch an entire evening for themselves. It’s the memory of warm food, laughter and Roger’s legs pressed against his. But, more than that, he misses Roger’s presence during the tournaments, Roger making his own way through the draw. Rafa doesn’t miss playing against him, it’s become a bit too painful having to deal with those matches, but he misses the knowledge that Roger’s there. Sharing this life with Rafa.

In Rome, it gets harder. Roger is in Ibiza, so very close to Rafa’s home. It is, of course, the point but it makes it difficult not to think about him, not to dream about him, not to crave him. It’s been planned this way – a week of holiday for Roger with Mirka and some friends and then a few days with Rafa, before Roland Garros. _We’re renting the villa until Sunday so you have to win_, Roger had whispered, a smile in his voice, that night after Miami. _Well, if you are renting the villa until Sunday… I have no choice_, Rafa had answered, already half-asleep, before settling more comfortably in Roger’s embrace, his back against Roger’s chest. And Roger’s arms had closed around Rafa, holding him tighter.

Rafa deals with it the way he deals with most things, by focusing on tennis. On his daily routine and how familiar it is. It’s peaceful, knowing what you have to do and executing it as best you can. He wakes up in the morning, has breakfast with his team and, for a few hours, nothing else matters but today’s match. So Rafa concentrates on that, aware that each match won is bringing him closer to Roger. During the day, Roger sends him pictures of boats he sees and believes Rafa would like, or hate, or that would make him laugh. When they speak, in the evening, neither of them mentions the days, hours, minutes separating them. And at night, all alone, Rafa falls asleep with his windows wide open, the warm air of a spring night in Rome filling his hotel room, the ghost of Roger’s fingers against his skin.

He wins Rome. In spite of the rain delays, in spite of being a break down in the third. The joy and the _relief_ in his veins make his head spin a little and his heart is beating fast, fast at the idea of going home. Where Roger is waiting.

“I won,” Rafa says, calling Roger as soon as he gets back to the locker room. “Hello,” he adds, as an afterthought.

“Hello,” Roger laughs. “Well done.” His voice is warm and genuine and Rafa can’t help but smile a bit wider at the certainty that Roger is happy for him.

“I can leave after press,” Rafa says. “You think you can fly tonight?”

“Sure,” Roger answers. “Everybody left during the day, I’m all alone here.”

“Okay. I text you when I leave for the airport.”

“Works for me. And Rafa?”

“Yes?”

“Congratulations.”

***

“How was Rome?” Roger asks. He’s propped up on one elbow, eyes fixed on Rafa’s shoulder, the fingertips of his free hand busy exploring the skin there. Roger has always been kind of fascinated with Rafa’s skin, which Rafa finds more satisfying than he probably should. “I don’t miss Monte Carlo…”

“You were in Monte Carlo two months ago,” Rafa points out.

“Or Madrid, really. But I miss Rome.” Roger goes on. “Your skin is very tanned,” he adds in the same tone, as if Rafa’s skin and missing Rome were not vastly different topics.

“It is?” Rafa replies. “And Rome was nice. Always is.”

“Yeah, it is. It’s lovely,” Roger says. He bends forward to kiss the patch of skin he had been caressing before going back to his initial position, fingertips abandoning Rafa’s shoulder for his bicep. “It’s the pine trees, I think. I miss the way they smell.”

Rafa scoffs. “We have a lot of pine trees here. Is the same smell, no?”

“Well,” Roger answers with a smile, “Maybe that’s why I miss it, then.”

_You can come more_, Rafa almost replies in a moment of weakness. It’s very late – or very early, depending on how you look at it and he hasn’t had any rest since the final. He tried to nap on the plane but was too high on his victory and the thought of _Roger_ to fall asleep. Then there was meeting Roger at the airport, the car ride bringing them back home which seemed to last for hours, Roger’s hands on him as soon as they got inside the house, Roger’s lips on his neck, on his chest, on his navel. Roger on his knees, mouthing Rafa’s cock through his sweatpants, saying, _please, please let me do this for you. _Saying_, I haven’t been able to think about anything else all day. _ And Rafa answering, _yes, yes, yes_.

They had moved to Rafa’s bed, at some point, and even though it must be close to dawn now, Rafa can’t bring himself to go to sleep.

“Maybe next year you play clay,” Rafa says instead. “So you do not miss Rome. Or the trees.”

“Yeah, maybe I will,” Roger agrees. “I didn’t… I didn’t think it would be this hard.” He’s staring at Rafa more intently, his features a mix between soft and demanding. They’re not talking about pine trees or Rome anymore.

“More than last year?” Rafa asks, although he’s aware that he is treading on precarious ground.

“Yes.”

Rafa doesn’t need to ask why. There’s one thing that happened during the past year that could make Roger feel like this. Only one. Prague. They haven’t discussed it, how for three days they could just be. How they could let go of being rivals, how they didn’t have to bear that ever present weight on their shoulders. How they didn’t constantly have to make sure not to talk too much, not to stand too close, not to touch too often. Still, it has been lingering between them, present but unacknowledged, both of them well aware of how dangerous it is to start speaking of it out loud. At the time, Rafa had thought of those three days as something akin to the silence falling upon an orchestra right before it launches itself into the third movement of a symphony. To the breath you take before getting up and going back on court for the beginning of a fifth set. As a moment of calm. A respite.

Roger, Rafa believes, had experienced them as a revelation. Something he could have been having all the time and that had been taken away from him. It’s not hard to guess, not when Roger’s been getting bolder and bolder during the past few months, always on the verge of going over a line he can’t afford to cross. Not when it woke Rafa up, one morning. Not when the words keep resonating in his mind, an ever-present melody he can’t get rid of.

_You need to talk to Roger_. _Maybe it would be better for the two of you to avoid being seen together in public for a while._

Rafa blinks, chasing away the memory.

“Okay?” Roger asks, worry coloring his tone.

“Yes,” Rafa says. His voice doesn’t shake. “Just feeling tired now.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” Roger falls back on the mattress and Rafa curls toward him, his body moving of its own accord so that they can fall asleep in their usual positions. “Let’s go to sleep.”

“Tomorrow… Tonight, we go on Beethoven and I take you to a place with a lot of pine trees,” Rafa says.

“I would like that.”

Rafa nods, once, even though Roger can’t see it with his eyes closed. He shuts his eyes too but finds himself in this strange state where he’s too exhausted to fall asleep. A few minutes pass – Rafa listening to Roger’s even breaths, to the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Do you miss Paris?” he asks.

He doesn’t really expect an answer and, for the longest time, there is none. Then, right when Rafa starts to drift off to sleep, he hears – or maybe imagines – Roger’s reply, quieter than a whisper.

“I do. I miss seeing you covered in clay more than I can say.”

***

The _cala_ Rafa wants to show Roger is south of Porto Cristo, in a secluded spot where tourists don’t come. Rafa loves it here but he’s never brought Roger before. He couldn’t say why. Maybe he was waiting for the right moment. Some special time.

They arrive there early in the morning. Even though it was stormy the night before, the waters of the Mediterranean are calm now, an endless expanse of clear, crystal blue. The beach is small but the sand is nearly white and, towering above it, a cliff where the pine trees Rafa promised Roger grow. They climb the path bringing them to the top of the cliff in silence, hazy with sleep, taking in the sounds of nature in the morning, the caress of a faint breeze against the grass, against their skin. Rafa waits until they are all the way up before asking.

“This is what you wanted, no?”

“Yeah,” Roger answers, gaze glued to a particularly old-looking tree, its trunk shriveled to the point it’s something of a miracle it’s still standing. “That’s the smell.” He casts Rafa a grateful glance and sends him a small smile before going back to examining the tree. 

Rafa leaves him to it, content to stay there and stare at the sea. He knows which smell Roger is talking about. It’s one he doesn’t pay attention to anymore, one that is as familiar to him as breathing. Not solely the smell of pine trees but the smell of dry, burnt earth too, as if it were coming from the soil itself, heady and primordial. As if the earth loved them and welcomed them. After a while, he senses Roger moving to stand behind him. Rafa peers over his shoulder and yes, there he is, hands in his pockets, admiring the bay. Rafa hesitates, for a second, before taking a step backward. He’s so close to Roger, he’s almost in his arms. It’s not something he would usually allow himself to do but there’s no one here and he… He needs it. Roger doesn’t hesitate, though. He wraps his arms around Rafa, pressing a gentle kiss on his temple.

“Thank you,” Roger says.

Roger’s chest behind him is warm and solid, his embrace unwavering and Rafa lets himself have this. Like this, it’s easy to imagine that they’re somehow the only people left on earth. That it’s just them and the sea.

After a while, they make their way back down to the beach where they decide to stay a little longer. They take their clothes off and fold them under their heads to avoid getting sand in their hair. Roger closes his eyes, face angled toward the sun, and Rafa settles by his side. Roger’s features are more relaxed and peaceful than Rafa’s seen them in a long time and it hits him all over again how hard it has been for Roger, lately. With a light touch, Rafa traces the wrinkles on Roger’s forehead. Roger doesn’t react and Rafa goes on, abandoning Roger’s brow to map the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Roger asks, startling Rafa.

“Nothing.” Rafa shrugs, trying to move away but Roger catches his wrist, forcing Rafa to hover awkwardly above him. Rafa gives in. “I am thinking that you look less tired.”

“Yeah, I do,” Roger replies, tone soft. He frees Rafa’s hand and Rafa lies back down next to him. “It’s very peaceful here. Almost like we’re in another world,” Roger goes on, echoing Rafa’s earlier thoughts.

“This is why I like it,” Rafa admits. “It feels… free.”

“Yeah. Do you ever think about it? How it could be?” He is aiming for casual, Rafa can tell, but there’s an underlying tension and Rafa’s heart sinks.

“No,” he answers, brutal but honest. They shouldn’t be having this conversation. If they open that door, if they cross that threshold, they will never be able to come back from it.

“I do. I do think about it, sometimes. Even more so since…”

“Yeah,” Rafa interrupts.

“Since Prague,” Roger continues, relentless.

Rafa tilts his head to look at Roger and finds Roger staring back at him, mouth set in an unhappy line. “I know,” Rafa tells him in an attempt to offer Roger a small measure of comfort. “One day… One day, maybe, you can tell me, no?”

“But not today?”

“No. Not today.”

There’s a silence. Then, “Okay. One day.”

Rafa swallows. He should be relieved that he’s managed to avoid this, that the door stayed closed, but he isn’t. There’s a sense of unease infusing his veins, the uncomfortable impression that what he’s achieved here, by hurting Roger, is nothing more than a precarious truce. One ready to shatter at any moment. _I’m sorry,_ Rafa wants to say. _I’m sorry._ Instead he leans in, lips brushing against Roger’s very lightly. Before Roger can pull him closer, though, Rafa stands back up.

“Come on,” he says, extending one hand toward Roger. “We need to try the water before we go back.”

“Oh?” Roger replies, and Rafa can tell from the playful note in his tone that Roger’s gathered himself and accepted this truce for what it is. He takes Rafa’s offered hand and gets on his feet. “We have something pressing to do?”

“We have golf.”

Roger giggles and something in Rafa’s chest loosens. “You have golf. I’ll take a nap.”

Rafa tries scowling at him but it doesn’t work at all. He ends up sending Roger a wide smile before turning around to face the sea, getting in easily.

“It’s a bit cold,” Roger complains behind him.

“Not as cold as lakes,” Rafa says, not bothering to stop walking.

“You know, they’re not always cold. They can be quite warm.”

Rafa gazes over his shoulder, throwing Roger a dubious glance. 

“Really,” Roger insists. He’s almost by Rafa’s side now.

“Sure,” Rafa says, unconvinced.

He waits until Roger has arrived right in front of him to splash him. Roger’s expression turns indignant, for a split of a second, before he retaliates. Rafa laughs, blinded by the drops of water showering him, and Roger laughs too, joyous and carefree.

It’s not that they’ve forgotten their discussion but it’s been discarded for the moment. They both have the capacity to put hurts aside and concentrate on the present. It’s what they have to do when they play – pushing to the back of their minds a missed opportunity, a lost set, and focus on what’s happening now. Maybe that’s how they’ve managed to last for so long, despite their respective careers, despite Roger’s marriage, despite all the times this was supposed to be over. Despite how little time they always seem to have. Every time they see each other they make the most of it, setting everything that isn’t _them_ aside, using their ability to stretch time to make hours feel like days, days like weeks, weeks like months. And it works. They work.

They’re not playing with the water anymore, happy to just stand and let the waves crash against them and around them. Roger is watching Rafa with a warm smile, the one that makes his eyes disappear, and Rafa is very much in love with him. _Anything_, Rafa thinks.

He’ll do anything to make sure it keeps working.

***

Roger has to go back to Zurich the next morning and Rafa is scheduled to leave for Paris in the afternoon. It’s never easy to say goodbye, even as often as they do, but some goodbyes are more difficult than others. Those, to Rafa’s surprise, are mostly painless.

Roger kisses him on the step of his door – long and a bit too heated for a goodbye kiss but Rafa isn’t awake enough to remark on it.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, once you’re settled” Roger says.

Rafa nods.

“Good luck in Paris,” Roger adds, a smile on his face and a hint of something else, something almost playful in his eyes, before getting into the car that will bring him to the airport. Rafa watches him disappear behind the tinted windows, his familiar face momentarily erased, and waits until the gates have closed behind the car to go back inside.

He has plenty of things to do before Paris – a training session with Diego who’s been at the academy for the past few days. Rafa might have been ignoring him in favor of Roger and he can’t any longer. Packing his things. Getting ready to face the most important time of the year.

***

As it happens, Rafa is sitting with his team, playing parchis while waiting to go to practice, Benito right next to him, when Roger calls. Rafa casts a quick glance around him. They’re on the grounds and the area is busy, although not as busy as it’ll get during the tournament, with no real place to talk privately.

“Hey,” Rafa says.

“Hello,” Roger answers.

“Sorry, this is not a good time,” Rafa grimaces. “Maybe I can call you later?”

“You could,” Roger says and the playfulness Rafa had detected in his gaze yesterday is now coloring his voice, “or you could give me your room number and talk to me in person.”

It takes him a few seconds to register Roger’s words. “You are in Paris?” he says, a bit too loudly judging by the surprised and, in one case, concerned looks Titín, Charly and Benito send him. Rafa averts his eyes.

Rogers lets out a small, satisfied laugh. “Not yet. But I’ll be in a few hours. Moët wanted to organize an event, you know, to celebrate my twenty years of career. I thought that Paris in spring might be a good time to do that.”

“Why you did not tell me yesterday?” Rafa asks. He tries to keep his tone neutral, all too aware of the stares lingering on him.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

A faint blush rises to Rafa’s cheeks. “Oh.”

“Are you surprised?”

“I am very surprised.”

“Good,” Roger says, voice low and thick and something warm coils inside Rafa.

“Give me your hotel,” Rafa says. “I send you a card for my room.”

“Okay, I’ll text you. See you soon.”

“See you.”

Rafa lifts his head back up to find that they’re still all watching him. Benito speaks first.

“So he’s in Paris?”

“Yes.” It’s useless to deny it. Rafa’s phone buzzes. It’s Roger, sending him his hotel information and Rafa’s eyebrows shoot up when he sees that the hotel Roger chose is five minutes away from his. Well, at least that will make things easier. Which Rafa guesses is the point.

“Why?”

Rafa shrugs, typing a reply to Roger. “Some Moët event,” he answers. “They are throwing him a party, I think.”

“And they couldn’t do that at any other time?”

Rafa puts his phone down next to him and meets Benito’s gaze. “I can’t control what Roger does,” Rafa states because he refuses to play this game.

“No,” Benito acknowledges. “You’re right.”

“It’s just a sponsor event,” Rafa continues, pressing his advantage.

“It is. But it’s not today that worries me. It’s what he might do tomorrow...”

Rafa frowns but doesn’t answer. Truth is, he’s been pondering the same thing, especially since Acapulco, but it feels disloyal to admit it out loud. Like the betrayal of something that should stay between him and Roger.

“I don’t think this is the right place for this discussion, no?” Rafa says instead. And it isn’t. Even though they’re talking in Spanish, they’re surrounded by people who could easily overhear them. He looks at his watch. “And it’s almost time to go to practice,” he adds, standing up. They won’t finish the game but he doesn’t care. He was losing anyway.

“Fine, but we will have to talk about it at some point,” Benito says. When Rafa doesn’t reply, he goes on, “You know I’m only trying to protect you, right?”

“I know,” Rafa says because he does. He’s not seventeen and naïve anymore and he understands very well how this world works. “We can talk about it after the tournament.”

***

Roger wakes him up in the middle of the night.

He doesn’t make much noise but Rafa still hears him. Or senses his presence. It’s a warm, heavy night, the air charged with electricity and carrying the threat of a storm. Rafa is surprised he’s managed to fall asleep in the first place. Eyes half-open, head resting on the pillows, he watches Roger take his suit off, carefully folding each piece of clothing on a chair. Then he’s naked and Rafa takes in the lean lines of his body. It’s impossible to remember a time when Roger’s body wasn’t as familiar to Rafa as his own, although he realizes it must have existed. Now, he would recognize it anywhere, under any circumstances, he thinks as Roger kneels on the mattress, finally close enough for Rafa to touch him. Rafa doesn’t waste any time. He grabs Roger’s shoulder blades, guiding him so that Roger settles above him.

“Hey baby,” Roger whispers, rubbing his nose against Rafa’s.

“Hey,” Rafa croaks, voice heavy with sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Is fine,” Rafa says. “The event was nice?”

“Very nice.” Roger laughs. “God, I can’t tell if this was my maddest or my most brilliant idea.”

Rafa tries to laugh too but Roger’s words are slightly too reminiscent of the previous afternoon’s not quite fight and the laugh gets caught in his throat, among the phantoms of too many unfinished conversations. His face must show something because Roger’s features morph into a concerned expression.

“What is it?” Roger asks.

Rafa blinks. “Nothing.” He releases Roger’s shoulder blades to cup his jaw, the faintest hint of stubble discernable beneath his fingers. Roger bends his head down to kiss Rafa’s palm. “I love you,” Rafa says. Even though it comes out shakier than intended, he feels Roger smile against his hand.

“I love you too.”

Rafa exhales. “Yes. Is a bit mad,” he says, answering Roger’s earlier question. He traces Roger’s lips with his fingertips.

“Yeah,” Roger admits. “I guess it is. I guess you drive me a bit mad.” He plants one gentle kiss against Rafa’s cheekbone, as if to soften his words. But Rafa is fine with them. Roger drives him a bit mad too.

“Just a bit?” he teases.

Roger barks out a laugh, pressing his forehead against Rafa’s. “Fine. You drive me fucking crazy.”

This time, Rafa laughs too. Their faces are so close Rafa can sense Roger’s breath on his skin and he brushes their lips together once, twice, before they find themselves kissing. Barely more than a few hours have passed since their last kiss, since Rafa came back from the grounds to Roger waiting for him in his hotel room, but it seems to Rafa like he’s been suffocating ever since. Like it’s only now, with Roger’s mouth on his, familiar and demanding, that he can breathe. “You make me crazy too,” he manages to say between two kisses, sounding more dazed than accusatory.

“Good,” Roger says and Rafa chuckles again. “Should we go to sleep?” Roger asks. “You have to be up in a few hours.”

“I don’t care. I sleep tomorrow night, no?”

Roger doesn’t argue with that. He puts a strand of Rafa’s hair back in place and starts kissing him again. They make love and, even though Rafa hasn’t found anything yet he dislikes when it comes to having sex with Roger, it’s the kind he prefers – slow and tender and almost too intense, Roger holding him like he fears Rafa might be a dream, something too good to be true, something that might disappear should he let go of him. So Roger doesn’t and Rafa lets himself be held a little too close, a little too tight. He doesn’t mind at all.

A few hours later, for the second time that week, they bid each other goodbye and it’s as difficult as Rafa had expected it to be on Wednesday.

“One month,” Rafa says lightly, as if it’s something to be celebrated, rather than something to be sad about.

“One month,” Roger agrees.

But it’s hard not to feel the weight of the weeks stretching ahead of them when they can’t even begin to contemplate that, the next time they will see each other, Rafa might have one more slam and Roger a few more titles.

“It’ll pass quickly,” Roger says, as if reading Rafa’s thoughts.

Rafa closes his eyes, pulling himself together. When he opens them again he says, “I know. Okay.”

He kisses Roger, brief and gentle, before turning around to face the door. He crosses the threshold, letting the door shut behind him, and doesn’t look back.

***

It does pass quickly. Slams always do.

The weather in Paris is awful, this year. Heavy and hot, the air suffused with humidity and ready to break into a storm at any given time. It’s a weather Rafa would expect in New York, maybe, but not in Paris at the end of May. He hates it. It makes everything a little more complicated – gripping his racket, hitting his shots, moving on the court – and Rafa can’t quite seem to find his footing during this tournament. Still he wins match after match and turns thirty-two in the scorching heat. It’s fine. Until he has to play Diego, that is. It’s Wednesday and the sky is even darker than usual, almost ink black although it’s the middle of the afternoon, and Rafa feels uncomfortable on Chatrier in a way he’s only ever felt a few times in his career. He loses the first set and promptly goes down a break in the second. He’s playing too defensive, he _knows _he is, and Diego is playing great but Rafa can’t manage to muster the intensity he needs to change the way this is going. Then the rain begins to fall, the match is interrupted and it’s back to the locker room.

There, Rafa breathes. He chases everything away from his brain. The last time he played Diego during a slam, at the Australian Open, in the same, heavy conditions, right before injuring his hip for the first time. Practicing with Diego at the academy, a few hours after Roger left, claiming that he had to rest after a long clay season to explain his absence during the past two days, although Rafa was aware it might justify his lack of training but not his lack in hospitality duties. The voice in his head, which doesn’t even sound like Benito’s anymore, repeating again and again, _you need to talk to him_. When he goes back on court, even if it just lasts a few games, he’s focused on what he has to do, nothing but tennis left on his mind. He ends up winning that match, albeit a day later, and even if the hardest matches are yet to come, it gets easier. Like something has settled within him at last.

After the final, with the trophy in his hands and the people in the stands clapping and clapping and clapping, Rafa lets go. He cries, joy and relief and incredulity mixing in his veins.

Back in the locker room, he gets out of his clothes and notices that there’s clay peppering his back. He lets out a laugh and, not thinking much about it, snaps a picture. It’s kind of blurry and the angle is awkward but it’ll do. He sends it to Roger, without adding anything, before putting his phone down and getting into the shower. Under the water, he washes away the clay, the sweat of the match and the sheer exhaustion of those two weeks. He doesn’t expect Roger to answer, isn’t even sure why he sent the picture. It’s not like they talked about those words Roger said in the dark and the quiet, right before falling asleep, and to be frank, Rafa isn’t certain he understands what Roger meant by them. If it was simple nostalgia for a time when each tournament seemed to inevitably end with the two of them facing each other, or something else. Something like the knowledge that this part of their lives is coming to a close and that they’ll soon have to start figuring out the next one. However, there is a reply from Roger waiting for him once he gets out of the shower –

_Next year, maybe I’ll be the one to get it off your back._

And, even though Rafa can’t tell if it’s a wish or a promise, he chooses to believe Roger will.

***

Rafa goes home and tries to get some rest but there is a lot to do - there always is. He attends the graduation ceremony at the academy, travels back to France for the 24 hours of Le Mans, watches Spain’s first World Cup match and spends some quiet time with his family and his friends while Roger is busy winning Stuttgart.

On Monday, a week before he is set to leave for England, Rafa starts to acclimatise his game, and his body, to grass again in Calvià. He kind of loves it, the mornings spent practicing before the heat becomes unbearable, then the afternoons, evenings and nights spent on his boat, sometimes with other people, sometimes on his own. In a way, it’s more restful than the previous week - nothing but tennis and the sea.

He almost begins to think he’s managed to escape the conversation he promised Benito, back in Paris, when he gets the call. It’s the middle of the week and late afternoon, this time, rather than early morning. Rafa is lounging on the deck of his boat, enjoying the last few hours of sunshine before the night. He’s on his own today, which probably isn’t coincidental.

“Beni,” he says. “Hello.”

“Rafa. How are you?”

“Fine,” he answers and for a while they talk about this and that, avoiding what Rafa suspects is the main reason for this call. But he’s not the one who’s going to broach the topic so he waits and waits until, inevitably –

“That’s not really why I was calling, though.”

“No?”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line but Rafa refuses to make this any easier. “There’s been some talk about organizing something, an event of sorts, for the ten-year anniversary of the 2008 final. One you and Roger would both have to attend.”

“Okay,” Rafa says, noncommittal.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Rafa doesn’t need to ask why. “What do you want me to do?” he asks instead.

“I want you to talk to Roger,” Benito answers, a slightly different iteration of the words he had uttered all those months ago.

“And say what?” This time Rafa doesn’t manage to keep the hint of irritation out of his voice.

“I’m not… I’m not the bad guy, here.”

“I know.” It would be easier if there was someone to blame for this. But there isn’t, no more than there is anyone to blame when his body breaks down again. Some things can’t be changed, can just be endured.

When Benito speaks again his tone is apologetic, as if he knows that what he’s about to say will hurt Rafa. “There is another solution.”

Rafa closes his eyes. “No.”

“Rafa…”

“Beni, please. No.” Rafa can’t consider it. Not yet. Hopefully, not ever. “I’ll talk to Roger, yes? What do you… What do you think we should do?”

“Just avoid being seen together for a while. No meetings at practice. No Kids’ Day at the US Open. And with the Davis Cup semifinals, Chicago shouldn’t be an issue. It’s not much, is it? It won’t change anything.”

Except it will. It’s those little things that make all the secrecy and hiding and lying bearable. Those slivers of light that, every so often, illuminate them and allow them to be _seen_. Being able to smile at each other between two practice sessions. Being able to stand next to each other when receiving another award and being reminded that, even though their names will only ever be linked together when it comes to tennis, they are linked together forever. Being able to hold each other tight in front of the whole world and no one thinking anything of it because, for once, they are on the same team. Rafa can withstand those little things being taken away from him. He doesn’t like it but he can and he will. He’s not so sure about Roger.

Isn’t it funny how, his whole career, Rafa has been praised for his ability to fight on a tennis court, to fight against injuries and setbacks, yet he finds himself unable to fight for what matters the most to him? He usually tries to tell himself that enduring is a form of resistance too. That it takes strength to say yes. That it doesn’t necessarily mean giving up. Right now, though, saying yes very much feels like defeat.

“Okay,” Rafa answers anyway. “I’m supposed to call him tonight,” he adds, as if Benito didn’t know that already.

As if there were still parts of this relationship that were his and his only.

***

“Okay,” Roger says.

“I…” Rafa begins, ready to argue the point and stops. He frowns. “Okay?”

Rafa can _hear_ Roger shrug. “I don’t particularly like it but it’s not forever, is it? We’ll do something for the twenty-year anniversary of the final. No one will care, by then.” He’s aiming at levity but Rafa can discern the exhaustion in his voice again, the one that was infusing every one of his words in Indian Wells and Miami.

“You are okay?” Rafa asks, even though it’s something of a useless question. Roger is in the middle of a tournament and he won’t admit to any weakness until it’s over.

If Rafa were there, with him, he wouldn’t need to ask questions he’s well aware he won’t get satisfying answers to. He would kiss Roger the way he likes to be kissed, sometimes, long and sweet and slightly forceful yet leaving him the opportunity to take control at any moment. He would kiss Roger until Roger’s hands start to shake a little, until his fingers start to grip something, anything – Rafa’s biceps, his shoulders, his neck. He would kiss Roger until there’s nothing left on his mind but Rafa which is, maybe, what he’s wanted ever since he saw Roger standing on the other side of a net for the very first time and thought, _please. See me too_.

It wouldn’t solve anything or make what’s been gnawing at Roger disappear but it would render things simple, for a short while. Because, this, at least, has always been obvious and easy. Kissing each other. Communicating with their bodies. Letting their fingers, their mouths, their tongues do the talking. But Rafa isn’t there. He’s thousands of kilometers away, watching the sun set on the sea and wondering what the fading light must look like in Halle.

“I’m fine,” Roger says, as Rafa knew he would. He hesitates, the smallest pause, before continuing, “Looking forward to Wimbledon, you know?”

It’s not something he would ordinarily say when trying to win another tournament and Rafa takes it for what it is. An answer to his question – _I’m not okay, really. I miss you_. He swallows. “I know. Only four matches to go, no?” he says.

“Yeah.” Roger sounds pensive. “Or maybe I’ll lose to Benoît tomorrow. Will you break up with me if I don’t win a tenth title?”

“This is something you are worried about?” Rafa asks, cautious and wondering. “About the title, I mean. I am only breaking up with you if you make me eat the cheese thing again,” he adds for good measure.

“Fondue?”

“Yes.” Rafa feels kind of sick just thinking about it.

“Fine,” Roger laughs. “And I don’t know, I guess it’s just…” Roger hesitates and Rafa waits. “It’s nothing, really,” he says eventually. “Forget about it.” 

Rafa refuses to be disappointed.

The next four days seem to last an eternity. Roger doesn’t lose his match against Benoît but it’s a near thing and every time Rafa speaks with him, Roger’s voice is laced with that now familiar tiredness. Their discussions never stir back to this topic but when Roger does lose the tournament, in the end, neither of them is surprised.

So Rafa sends, _still_ _no breaking up with you_, in an attempt to make Roger laugh and hopes it’ll be enough until Rafa gets to see him in person, tomorrow.

***

There’s a distinctive smell that greets Rafa when he opens the door of the house, one that speaks of burnt dishes and failed cooking attempts. Rafa grimaces. He sets his bag down on the floor and toes his shoes off before taking the direction of the kitchen, where the smell is coming from. Where, Rafa guesses, Roger is. And, sure enough, Rafa finds him standing in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by a vast array of pots and pans and engaged in what appears to be a staring contest with the spatula he’s holding. Rafa doesn’t laugh.

“Everything okay?” he inquires, tone neutral.

“Oh, finally, you’re back!” Roger says. “Yeah, I’m fine. Not so sure about this,” he adds, pointing at one of the pots with his spatula. It’s filled with something that looks very black and not edible at all.

Rafa doesn’t bother trying to guess what that was supposed to be and asks, “What is this?”

“Well, this is pasta. Was pasta.” Roger frowns. “Might have been pasta?”

Rafa tries holding it back, he does, but he can’t help it and bursts out laughing. “No. This is not pasta,” he says between two hiccups. “No, no.”

“You could be nicer about it,” Roger says as he puts his spatula in the sink and leans back against the counter. “I really thought I would manage to do it, this time.”

“Why you don’t wait for me?” Rafa asks because they’ve talked about this. Once or twice a year, Roger will decide that cooking isn’t that hard and that if he hasn’t had any success at it before it’s simply because he hasn’t really tried and Rafa will end up with a messy kitchen and a dismayed, and rather annoyed, boyfriend.

Roger shrugs and opens his arms, gesturing for Rafa to come here. He doesn’t need to do it twice. Rafa closes the few meters separating them and Roger’s arms wrap around him, his fingers settling on the small of Rafa’s back. Rafa does his best not to let out a contented sigh.

“I was bored,” Roger answers, kissing the corner of Rafa’s mouth.

“I only leave for a very short time,” Rafa replies. “Very short training, no?”

“Yes, well,” Roger’s hands start stroking Rafa’s back, “it still felt too long.” He holds Rafa’s gaze as he says it, unabashed and unapologetic.

Rafa bends his head down, hiding his smile in the crook of Roger’s neck. “Okay,” he says, his lips brushing against Roger’s skin. “But maybe tomorrow you look on Instagram instead of doing the cooking.”

“Or,” Roger counters, cradling Rafa’s face in his hands and forcing him to look back up at Roger, “You could just stay in bed. With me,” he adds, as if Rafa might stay in bed with someone else. It might have been true, years ago, when things were more uncertain and less settled between them, but even then Rafa would have never chosen anyone else over Roger.

Rafa shakes his head, still grinning. “No.”

“Then Instagram it is.”

Rafa drops a small kiss on Roger’s palm before taking a step back, breaking their embrace. “You still want pasta?” he asks.

“Well, I didn’t really want pasta, I just thought it would be the easiest thing to make.” Rafa raises an eyebrow. “I know,” Roger says in response. “But I’m still fine with pasta.”

“Okay, I do it. You watch.”

Roger lifts his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine.” In one, fluid movement he perches himself on the counter and settles there, chin in hand, his elbows on his knees. “Do I get to kiss the chef at the end?”

“Only if you say the pasta is very good.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be good.” He doesn’t sound like he’s talking about the pasta anymore but Rafa refuses to take the bait. He won’t get distracted. Instead, he takes out a new pot, fills it with water and puts it on the stove, before searching for the olive oil. Which he doesn’t find.

“You have seen the olive oil?”

“I think it’s in there” Roger says, pointing at a cupboard on Rafa’s left. Rafa opens it and, yes. There it is.

“Do you really need to put olive oil in everything?” Roger asks, like he has a thousand times before.

Rafa chuckles. “Yes.”

Roger emits a pensive noise but doesn’t reply and Rafa decides to concentrate on his task. There’s a soothing quality to cooking. It’s in the way it requires you to go through an exact order, to execute precise gestures. In the way everything has a name – weighing, mincing, chopping – and a place. In the way the result depends entirely on your willingness to follow instructions. It’s no wonder then that Roger should be so terrible at it. Roger who likes nothing more than to be unpredictable, than to improve. Who likes bending the rules to see how far he can go. Who is saying, “Better get used to it, then. You know, for when I come teach at the academy.”

He says it so casually, and Rafa is so focused on what he’s doing, that he doesn’t register Roger’s words right away. He hums in agreement, adding the spaghetti to the boiling water, and it’s only after he takes a step back, waiting for them to be done, that it hits him – what Roger just said. They’ve joked about it a few times, of course. About what Roger’s teaching methods would be. They’ve discussed it more seriously in bed, under the safe cover of the night, when it’s easier to conjure up topics that might tear them apart, when they can take refuge in each other’s bodies should language become too complicated, should it fail them. But it’s the first time Roger has mentioned it in the bright light of day, without any hint of humor in his tone. Quite the contrary, in fact.

It’s the kind of statement that raises more questions than it answers. Has Roger spoken about it with Mirka? His family? How would they make the world accept it? How long would it last?

Rafa doesn’t ask any of these out loud.

It’s a late Monday afternoon, their first one together since Paris. They have almost two days before Roger’s family arrives on Wednesday, before he officially starts training. A whole week before the tournament begins and they stop seeing each other. They have rules about slams and those include staying away from each other for as long as they’re both in the tournament and might have to play against one another. They have hours and hours for themselves, alone in this house, before Rafa has to leave the next morning for his daily practice. Outside, the sun is blazing, the weather much warmer than usual, and its rays are falling through the open window, gathering on the floor in small puddles of light. Rafa lifts his gaze up from the cooking pasta to peer at Roger, still sitting on the counter. He’s staring back at Rafa evenly, the barest hint of insecurity on his face discernable in the way his mouth twitches.

Rafa takes in as much of the calm and the quietness of the afternoon as he can, as if he could absorb the atmosphere, the sensation, so that it would be there, with him, when he most needed it. And, in this moment that is as close to perfection as Rafa can imagine – him cooking, Roger next to him, the promise of an evening together – Rafa answers,

“Yes. For when you come teach at the academy.”

***

They both make it to the second week. The whole tournament is something of a dream – the sun keeps on shining, Rafa is playing well and, above all, he is happy. For the first time in months, the future seems golden. Rafa carries Roger’s words with him, wherever he goes, their echo resonating in his mind, against his skin, like a wish destined to be fulfilled. He doesn’t think much about the ceremony that should have been held for the ten-year anniversary of the final and wasn’t or about the fact that he and Roger are to avoid each other in public.

Until Middle Sunday, that is.

So far, it’s been quite easy not to meet at practice, especially with them playing on different days. But it’s Sunday, they both have an important match the next day, and neither of them wants to change their usual schedule. Not for this. Which is how they find themselves training on opposite courts, Novak between them, trying very hard not to acknowledge the other’s presence.

The whole thing is kind of stupid, in Rafa’s opinion, but he said he would do it and it’s too late to back down. So he concentrates on his shots, and what Francis is telling him, and banishes all things related to Roger from his brain for now.

He expects Roger to text him when they’re done, to joke about the absurdity of the situation or to be angry, maybe, but he doesn’t and he doesn’t call either. Rafa decides to leave him an hour but then the hour passes and there’s still nothing. So he sends a tentative, _everything okay? _The answer arrives a few minutes later which means Roger hasn’t been too busy to text Rafa. He merely didn’t feel like it. _Yes_, it says. _Nothing to worry about._

Rafa stares at it for a long time, wondering if he should push it or let Roger be. In the end, he lets it go. They’re in the middle of a slam and if Roger doesn’t want to talk about it or dwell on it it’s fine. Maybe he is okay and it’s just Rafa who is left unsettled by the afternoon.

But when he goes to sleep that night he feels a little less peaceful, a little less happy. As if what Rafa had thought to be progress, the promise of a brighter future, had been nothing but an illusion. One he had deluded himself into believing.

***

It’s during one of Rafa’s changeovers, in the middle of his second set against Del Potro, that Roger loses his quarter final. Rafa glances at the score and there is no doubt possible – it’s over. When he leaves his chair to resume play, it’s a bit like taking a step in the dark. Rafa is confused and disorientated and he can’t quite believe that Roger is out of the tournament. He loses his serve and, even though he breaks back immediately after and manages to get three set points, he ends up losing the set. He also loses the third and it looks like he’s going to be out of the tournament very soon too if he doesn’t react. _After_, he tells himself at the beginning of the fourth set. _After you can be sad. But not now_.

So he puts it aside in order to win the next two sets – and the match.

It all comes back to him during his presser. He gets too defensive when they ask him about Roger’s loss and his voice cracks a bit when he says, _I’m sorry for him_. He somehow finds himself speaking about how tough this must be for Roger and decides that that’s enough for tonight. He declares that he’s sorry for Roger, congratulates Kevin and moves on to the next question.

When Rafa makes it back to his house and his room, his watch indicates that it’s already past midnight. He lets himself fall on his bed, still clothed, and gets his phone out of his pocket. If he wanted to, he could use the late hour as a convenient excuse not to make the call. Roger would accept it, would maybe even be relieved not to have to talk to Rafa tonight. But he doesn’t want to and, in truth, he can’t. He imagines Roger in his house, this house where they were so happy for a few days, and the idea of how devastated he must now be is unbearable.

Rafa’s first call is left unanswered, as is his second. On his third, and last, try of the night, Roger answers.

“Yes?” There’s a tired quality to his voice but he doesn’t sound like Rafa just woke him up. He sounds like it’s taking him every bit of strength he has not to collapse.

“Roger, hey,” Rafa says. “I am not gonna be long. I just wanted to say...” He pauses, searching for the right words. It’s always harder to find his English in these situations and he’s aware there’s nothing he can say to make it better. If he could, if it were possible, Rafa would take on Roger’s pain himself. He wouldn’t hesitate, not one second. He would lift that weight off of Roger’s shoulders and put it on his. But he can’t. He can only offer this as a consolation – his understanding. One that stems from having been in the same place, from having had his heart broken in the same way. He can only offer Roger the reassurance that he isn’t alone in this. That he’s never been. “I am sorry.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry too,” Roger answers and Rafa winces. A silence stretches between them and, for a moment, Rafa believes that they’ll leave it at that. But then Roger lets out a small sigh, clears his throat and starts talking again, somehow livelier and softer at the same time. “They tried cheering me up but I…”

“Yeah.”

“Leo made me a drawing.”

“A nice drawing?”

“A drawing of me with the trophy. I didn’t find it very cheerful,” Roger replies but there’s a hint of amusement in his words. Rafa chooses to go with it.

“Maybe is a drawing about next year,” he suggests. 

“Oh, do you think my children are making prophetic drawings now?”

“Prophetic?”

“You know, drawings that tell the future.”

“Maybe. We have to wait next year to know, no?” Rafa says. “You keep it so we have proof.”

At that Roger laughs. It’s not the biggest or the warmest one but it’s a real laugh and _good enough_. Rafa will take it.

There’s another pause but it’s not painful, this time. It’s the kind of silence that exists between two people who know each other very well. Rafa breaches it first.

“You leave tomorrow?”

“No, on Friday. I want… I want to say goodbye.”

“Okay.” Rafa says. “Yes. I don’t think I gonna train for a long time tomorrow.” He’s not looking forward to the pain that awaits him when he wakes up the next morning.

Roger chuckles. “Yeah… I didn’t tell you, did I? Congratulations.”

Rafa’s breath hitches. He knows how complicated it must be for Roger to put aside his pain and be happy for Rafa. He does. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “So we see each other tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow. And Rafa?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

The call disconnects and Rafa’s screen goes black. He keeps on staring at it, unblinking. It takes him a very long time to avert his gaze, find the will to divest himself and get under the covers. When he closes his eyes, he wishes for a dreamless sleep.

Three days later, it’s Rafa’s turn to leave the court crushed and heartbroken, thinking, _I was so close, I was so close, I was so close_. So close to getting the chance to lift that trophy again. But he doesn’t and Rafa leaves England and its acres of green to go back home. Back to the sea. Back to blue.

***

The music is loud, loud, loud which is, in part, why Rafa doesn’t see Roger’s missed calls until he leaves the dancefloor to go to the toilet and decides to check his phone. That, and the fact that he wasn’t expecting any.

It’s the middle of July and Rafa is in Ibiza, enjoying a short holiday with his friends before going back to practice. He blinks, wondering why Roger would call him at almost two am. Twice. What’s so important that he couldn’t text, or wait until tomorrow. There’s only one way to know, though, so Rafa calls him back.

“Roger?” he says, when Roger answers his phone. “You call. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything is fine. Just, couldn’t sleep. Did I wake you?”

“No.” Rafa leans against the wall of the toilet stall, settling in for a longer talk. It feels slightly ridiculous to be having a conversation in here but the noise is fainter and, in truth, Rafa is drunk enough not to be bothered. He has a thought for his friends, waiting for him outside, but they’ll probably be fine for a few more minutes. “I am in this club for a bachelor party. Is called Ushuaïa, I think you go there, no? When you were in Ibiza.”

“Ah, yeah,” Roger breathes. “Were you dancing?”

“Yes.”

“The music any good?”

“Depends,” Rafa giggles. “You like David Guetta?” Before Roger can answer, though, Rafa hears the bathroom door opening and a few people coming in. They’re probably too drunk to pay attention to Rafa’s conversation and it’s not like they would recognize him from his voice alone, hidden as he is, but he still whispers, “Wait.”

“Okay,” Roger replies.

Rafa lets his head fall back against the wall and grimaces. He’ll need to take a shower before going to bed. The group of people doesn’t stay long and, soon enough, he’s alone again.

“This is not a very good place to talk,” he says. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Roger repeats but he seems distracted. Distant. As if contemplating something else entirely. So Rafa asks.

“What are you thinking?”

“You and me. Dancing.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” A sigh. “You told me… You told me you didn’t want to know. You told me one day, maybe.”

Rafa recalls that conversation, of course he does. It would be hard not to. The entire day is seared into his memory – the _cala_, the sun, the transparent blue of the Mediterranean. The heady smell of pine trees. The feeling of freedom making their heads spin a little.

Rafa’s head is spinning a little now. It’s the alcohol. The alcohol and an exhaustion he hopes a week-long holiday will be enough to shake off. It’s also this guy Rafa doesn’t know who flirted with him, earlier, draping his arm over Rafa’s shoulder in an attempt to see if Rafa would respond in kind, even though there were dozens of phones surrounding them. Filming and taking pictures. It’s that Rafa had to turn him down while making it look like he didn’t understand what the guy wanted and, yes, maybe Rafa is tired of fighting. Maybe, alone in this toilet stall, he can admit it. He wants to open that door, no matter that it would surely break his heart, and he wants Roger to tell him whatever it is he’s imagining. How he would hold Rafa in the middle of a crowd of dancing people. How his hands would wander, uncaring. How his fingers would grab Rafa’s arse, pulling him as close to Roger as possible. How he would kiss Rafa in front of everybody until there is not one person left questioning that they belong together.

“Rafa? You’re still here?”

“Yes, sorry. I am a bit drunk, no?”

“No, I’m sorry. You probably want to go back.”

“Is fine,” Rafa says because it is.

“So,” Roger says. “Not today either?”

Rafa swallows – he swallows the want he let overflow his mind for a moment, he swallows the _need_. “No,” he confirms, something tight and hot constricting his chest, making his ribcage ache. “Not today.”

“Okay.” Roger doesn’t sound disappointed or angry. Just accepting. “Tell me what you were thinking about, then,” he asks, echoing Rafa’s earlier question. “You know, when you stopped talking.”

And, yes, Rafa must be drunk and hurting because he doesn’t even hesitate before answering, “You.” He laughs. “I am always thinking about you, no?”

He half-expects Roger to diffuse the seriousness of Rafa’s words with a joke but he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he says in an intimate, secretive tone. “Me too.” The oppressive feeling in Rafa’s chest doesn’t disappear but still, he smiles.

He glances at his watch. He should go back out there soon if he doesn’t want Toméu to send out a search party. He doesn’t move. “Where are you?” he asks instead.

“In the garden.”

“Is not cold?”

Roger chuckles. “No, it’s lovely. And the sky is very clear tonight. I can see a lot of stars.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” There’s longing in his voice and, for a few seconds, Rafa almost expects Roger to say something he shouldn’t, something wild and a bit desperate the way he does, sometimes, when it gets too much to bear. Something like, _please come now_. He can almost hear the thought forming, as clearly as if it were his own. But Roger apparently thinks better of it. “I should probably try to sleep again. Let you go back to the party.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

When Rafa goes back outside there is, thankfully, no search party. He moves through the crowd to get back to his friends, dodging curious stares and drunk gazes.

Above him, the night sky is pitch black and he can’t discern a single star.

***

A few days before Rafa is supposed to fly to Toronto, his knee starts to hurt again.

It happens in the middle of practice, while he’s hitting with Charly and Toméu. He does his best to ignore it, at first, but it quickly becomes impossible and he calls the session to a halt. They all gather around the net and wait for Titín to come help assess the situation before deciding what to do.

“How bad is it?” Titín asks.

Rafa shrugs. Bad enough that he can feel it; not bad enough that he couldn’t play, if he had too. Which he doesn’t, right now. Yet, he’s painfully aware of all the eyes lingering on him, puzzled and wondering. The stares of fans, tourists or passersby who are all here to watch him practice. He only says the first part out loud, keeping the second one for himself, and the discussion veers toward whether to finish this session or not. Rafa tries to follow it but his attention keeps wandering, Charly and Titín’s voices becoming more and more distant.

April, May, June. The first half of July. That’s what he had, this time: a little less than four months. The reprieves are getting shorter and shorter and he can’t help but wonder – how soon will he cease getting even those?

“If that’s okay with you?” he hears Charly say. He has no idea what he’s talking about. 

“Sorry,” Rafa apologizes. “Can you say that again?”

Charly throws him a concerned look but complies without protest. “I was saying that we can finish with down the line drills. Less movement. And we’ll take a day off tomorrow, see how it goes after some rest, if that’s okay with you.”

Rafa nods. “Yes, okay.”

In the end, though, he only hits a few more shots before the pain flares up again and he has to stop, no matter how many watchful gazes are on him. He doesn’t practice the next day, or the day after.

On the plane bringing him back to America, less than six months after he left it with an injured hip, Rafa can’t help but wonder at how little has changed. Here he is and his body is betraying him again, although he shouldn’t view it like this, and Roger is still hurting like he was all those months ago. Time hasn’t healed anything. At least, Roger is already in the States, training in the Hamptons, so there’s no time difference to deal with. It’s a small thing but one Rafa intends to take advantage of.

He shuts his eyes, settles more comfortably into his seat, turns on the music and, for the rest of the flight, wills himself not to think.

***

Rafa wins Toronto. It’s not his best tennis, or his best week, but it doesn’t matter. His knee leaves him in peace, more or less, and on Sunday he manages to lift a trophy. Another one.

Rafa wins Toronto. Which means he doesn’t play Cincy. It should be an easy decision to take - he just won a title, he has to be careful with his body, the last slam of the year is looming and he’s the defending champion. But it isn’t.

“Don’t,” Roger says, late on Sunday night, when Rafa suggests he might come to Cincy anyway. “You should rest. And we’ll see each other next week, in any case.”

“But…”

Rafa isn’t sure why he’s arguing. Roger is right. He had the same discussion with Francis and Titín, before calling Roger, who both told him the same thing and they are also right. Yet he can’t shake the feeling that he needs to see Roger. It’s been almost a month since that drunken conversation in Ibiza but Rafa hasn’t been able to put it out of his mind and there’s this sense that something might go wrong at any moment. That it wouldn’t take much for Roger to do something they can’t come back from.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.” There is no way for Rafa to explain any of that to Roger without making the situation even worse. So he says, “I miss you.” Which is, at least, the truth.

“I miss you too. It’s just one week, yes?”

“Yes,” Rafa answers. But the anxiety doesn’t recede.

***

When they do see each other, a little less than a week later, it becomes apparent that there’s something off with Roger - confirming Rafa’s fears. It’s not something outwardly perceptible. It’s not one of those sulks or dark moods Roger sometimes gets stuck in. And it’s not this dangerous thing Roger has been carrying within himself since Prague. It’s something else.

Roger kisses him hello when Rafa arrives to his house like he usually would. They’re both tired, Roger from yesterday’s final and the flight to New York, Rafa from his practice session with Stan and too many restless nights without Roger, so they end up in bed in the middle of the afternoon. It’s a rare luxury in their lives, to be able to spend an entire afternoon napping and kissing and having lazy sex, the kind that’s less about getting off and more about getting close, body against body, skin on skin, mouth on mouth. That’s more about reaffirming how much they enjoy being together, quiet, muffled laughter in the golden light of the afternoon, whispered words and half-finished sentences.

Still, something is off. They’re so attuned to each other, so used to responding to the other’s smallest movement, smallest tell, that Rafa can’t help but feel it. Everything Roger does, every gesture is a bit off – his stares either lingering too long or not long enough, his answers either coming too quickly or too slowly. Rafa tries to convince himself it might be regrets about the final, at first. Or maybe some concern about his kids, who are staying at the Hamptons house for a few days. When he stirs the discussion toward those topics, though, Roger doesn’t seem bothered, answering him easily. Rafa is left with no choice but to ask.

“Roger. What is it?”

Rafa’s lying on his front, arms crossed under the pillows and cheek pressed against the soft material. His eyes are closed and, even though he’s well aware Roger is awake, he’s leaving him an out. But, for once, Roger decides to speak.

“Did you know there’s an event on Thursday? About tennis being more inclusive or more open, I think. For like gay and bi people.”

Rafa nods but doesn’t reply. He’s heard about it in a vague, remote sort of way but he hasn’t taken any further interest in it. What would be the point?

“Anyway, they talked to me about it. In Cincy,” Roger continues. “Asked me if I think the ATP is a safe place to come out.”

Rafa grimaces - what a terrible time to ask Roger that. But Roger sees it and misinterprets it. “Don’t worry,” he says with a laugh. It’s a harsh, awful noise. “I said exactly what I was supposed to say. That’s why you didn’t receive any call about it, I guess.”

Rafa doesn’t correct him. “What… What did you say?”

Roger touches Rafa for the first time since this conversation began, letting his fingers trail along Rafa’s back, from the base of his neck to the small of his back. “I said that I didn’t think it was a problem at all.” His voice is low, measured. Like he’s talking about something that barely concerns them. Like it doesn’t hurt at all. “That I didn’t know why it hadn’t happened before but the ATP was a welcoming place and that everybody should support each other.” He sighs. “What else could I say?”

Nothing. There’s nothing else Roger could have said and Rafa is fucking glad he wasn’t the one put in that situation. “This is a good answer,” he says. “Is a nice answer, no? Maybe it can help…”

“It felt like a betrayal,” Roger says, interrupting Rafa. This time, his tone isn’t neutral at all. 

Rafa opens his eyes but Roger isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at his fingers, still spread on Rafa’s skin. He doesn’t seem sad, or angry. He seems… Lost. “Is not,” Rafa says. It doesn’t really matter that he’s wondered about the same thing just a few months ago, that it’s getting harder and harder to say _yes_ in order to preserve what little freedom they have left, he can’t allow Roger to think that he’s betraying them. Betraying Rafa. Betraying himself. “Is not,” he repeats, more forceful.

“Are you sure?” Roger asks, tilting his head up to meet Rafa’s gaze. And this is why they don’t speak about it. It leads them nowhere. It only leaves them aching.

“Yes,” Rafa says. He has no idea if he believes it or not but that’s not the issue right now.

“Right,” Roger says. He doesn’t sound convinced but it’s his way of acknowledging that the discussion is over. “Right. I’m going to take a shower.”

He gets off the bed and starts walking in the direction of the bathroom. When he reaches the door, he pauses. “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” Rafa says, sitting up. “Just one minute.”

“You come when you’re ready,” Roger replies before getting inside, leaving the door half-open behind him.

Rafa doesn’t move. There’s this feeling again that they’re stalling for time and that something will soon have to give. Something that looks very much like Roger’s ability to keep on doing this. It’s a horrible feeling, one paralyzing every bone in Rafa’s body. It takes him an inordinate amount of strength, then, to put his feet on the floor, to stand up and take the few steps separating him from the bathroom.

The room is filled with steam, Roger’s silhouette barely discernible, his back to Rafa. Rafa closes the distance between them, plastering his chest against Roger’s back, his hands wrapping around Roger’s waist. The water is hot and Rafa shudders under the sudden burn. Roger must sense his slight tremor because he entwines their fingers and lifts Rafa’s hand to his mouth, sucking at his knuckles. Rafa exhales a shaky breath.

“Okay?” Roger asks. He’s not talking about the temperature of the water.

Rafa bends his head down, kissing Roger’s shoulder. The skin is wet and soft under his lips and he kind of wants to stay like this forever, leaning against Roger, holding him and being held by him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

***

It’s not okay. But, for a week, they act like it is. It’s not difficult – being with Roger always makes Rafa smile more wildly, laugh more freely, shine more brightly. He’s, well. He’s happy. Despite the pain in his knee threatening to come back at any moment. Despite the echoes of their conversation lingering in his mind, tightening his throat when he least expects it.

The first time they’re scheduled to practice back to back, the Friday before the tournament starts, Rafa arrives late enough that Roger and his team have long left the court. He looks around the deserted stadium but there are no traces of Roger left, no clue indicating that he was there before. It’s like searching for a ghost, or the memory of something you think might have existed but never did. The remnants of a dream.

On Saturday, Rafa does Kids’ Day with Novak and it’s _fine_. They’ve done those together before and it doesn’t matter that this day is something he used to share with Roger. It doesn’t matter that he would have liked to continue sharing it with Roger, that it’s harder to give up on than a simple meeting between two practice sessions. It doesn’t matter. Rafa puts a smile on his face and gets on with it.

At the end of the day, he’s too exhausted to pay much attention to the twist at the corner of Roger’s mouth, to the somewhat feverish determination in his eyes. If he had, things might have turned out differently. But Rafa doesn’t really believe in _what ifs_, or _maybes_.

He can’t afford to.

***

The next day, when Rafa enters Arthur Ashe stadium, Roger is waiting for him.

For a few seconds, Rafa wonders if he’s hallucinating him. He remembers Friday, searching for traces of Roger’s presence and finding nothing, yet now here he is. And he’s not a figment of Rafa’s imagination, no. He’s present and solid, looking beautiful in red and bright blue. Even though he’s not playing, he’s moving on the court like he was born to be there, in a way that usually makes Rafa’s heart clench a little and, suddenly, all the annoyance, the frustration and the anger Rafa hasn’t let himself feel for months rush through him, choking him. Why is Roger making this so much harder for them?

This is not the place nor the time to get an answer to that question, though, and Rafa schools his features into what he hopes is a neutral expression. He walks toward the benches, dropping his bags before greeting Severin and Ivan while Charly and Francis do the same. Then, he has to face Roger.

He watches Roger get closer to him, face soft, almost vulnerable. Despite himself, Rafa senses that bubble forming around them, the one that so easily excludes everybody that isn’t them. He scowls a bit but the annoyance and the anger he had felt a mere moments ago have already disappeared. There’s only tiredness left. Tiredness and something akin to sorrow. They clasp hands, Roger’s thumb caressing Rafa’s palm, the briefest gesture. In the background, Rafa can hear the clear sounds of pictures being taken. He releases Roger’s hand and Roger shifts to shake hands with Francis. When it’s done, Rafa leaves to take place behind the baseline.

Practice starts and Roger lingers. Rafa does his best not to pay attention to it, to the fact that he’s still sitting on the bench while Rafa is trying to hit, but he can’t. It’s an effort, not to angle his body toward him, not to look at him, not to seek his gaze. An effort not to wonder what Roger meant to accomplish here.

When Roger eventually leaves, the tension that had been infusing Rafa’s every gesture, his every move, vanishes and he nearly stumbles.

It’s relief, this empty feeling at the center of his chest, he tells himself. It’s relief.

***

Rafa has been standing in front of Roger’s house for the past five minutes. It’s been hours since his practice, since he texted Roger after, asking him if he could come by in the afternoon and Roger answering, _yes the family will be out_, yet Rafa has no idea what he’s going to say. Still, he can’t stay like this facing a closed door much longer and he rings the doorbell. The door opens right away, Roger on the other side, like he’s been waiting behind it all this time and maybe he has. Rafa isn’t sure what to do with that thought so he dismisses it and enters the house, closing the door behind him. Roger takes a step forward as if to touch Rafa or kiss him hello but holds himself back before he can reach him.

He gestures for Rafa to follow him and they make their way to the living room in silence. There, Rafa sits down on the sofa while Roger takes the armchair facing him. It’s Roger who speaks first.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

Rafa shakes his head. He couldn’t swallow a thing.

“I’m not sorry,” Roger says, cutting straight to the point. And fine, then.

“Okay,” Rafa acknowledges. “But we agreed,” he says, refusing to waver. “Remember? I asked and you say you are okay doing it.”

Roger averts his eyes. He’s in the wrong and he’s aware of it, but it doesn’t stop him. “For how long, though? How long are we gonna do this?”

“I don’t know,” Rafa admits. He wishes he could summon his earlier anger. It would be easier, if they were actually yelling at each other instead of being mad at the same, nameless, crushing thing. But he can’t. Not when Roger’s words and actions stem from him hurting.

“It was just two players meeting at practice, who cares?” Roger continues. As if they were any players. As if it were that simple for them. “There was no one in the stadium anyway,” he amends, seemingly realizing what he said.

“There are people taking pictures, no?”

“They’ve been taking pictures of us for the past fourteen years!” Roger doesn’t shout but it feels like he did and Rafa flinches. “It was never a problem before, was it?” he asks, tone softer, his anger once again under control. “Why is it now?”

As soon as he utters the question out loud, Rafa can see him deflate, the fight leaving him. Roger already knows the answer to that question. They both do. And, even though neither of them says it, they’re both thinking it. Prague. It always comes back to that, in the end. Rafa hates it. He hates that something as bright and luminous as Prague, something that made them so happy is now breaking them.

A respite, Rafa had thought at the time. One they’ve been paying for ever since.

“You regret it?” he asks, heart in his throat, unable to look at Roger. He senses Roger move and one of his hands finds its way on Rafa’s thigh, squeezing it.

“Rafa… Baby, no.” There’s something awful in Roger’s voice, like it’s taking all of his strength not to fall apart. “I only regret not having more of it,” he says, sounding more sincere than he has in a long time. “Come to Chicago, I can still kick Novak out of the team.”

It’s a terrible joke but Rafa lets out a feeble laugh anyway. “Okay. Good.”

“And you? You regret it?”

At that, Rafa meets Roger’s eyes. They are kind of wet and Rafa exhales. “No,” he answers, firm and clear. “I was… I was very happy, no?”

“Yeah,” Roger starts but Rafa isn’t done.

“And I think I am lucky,” he says. “That I had this, with you.”

“Yeah,” Roger says again. “I guess we are. I guess we are lucky.”

Roger lifts himself up from the armchair, using the hand resting on Rafa’s leg as leverage, and grabs Rafa’s neck with his free hand. He doesn’t waste time, his mouth finding Rafa’s. Rafa clutches Roger’s t-shirt, trying to hold on to something, anything, as Roger kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, relentless and demanding. Rafa shifts so that he’s lying on the sofa, bringing Roger with him until their bodies are aligned, chests and legs touching. Roger’s fingers release their grip on Rafa’s thigh and move up to his crotch, unbuttoning his jeans.

Roger’s hand closes on his half-hard cock and Rafa gasps, when they hear the unmistakable sound of a car parking in front of the house.

“Fuck.” Roger breaks the kiss to press his forehead against Rafa’s. “Fuck,” he repeats.

Rafa can empathize but they need to move. Now. “Roger…” he says, breathless and a bit panicky. “Up.”

“Yeah. Right.”

When Roger’s family enters the house, a few minutes later, they are both more or less presentable. Rafa is on the sofa, sitting again, heart still racing under the adrenaline rush, and Roger is in the kitchen, filling glasses with lemonade for the kids.

“Oh, Rafa,” Mirka exclaims.

“Hello,” Rafa says, wishing he were anywhere but here.

“Hello,” Mirka replies and any trace of surprise has already been erased from her voice.

The kids, though, are delighted. They run toward Rafa in a flurry of limbs and screams, the girls perching themselves on the sofa next to him and the boys sitting down on the coffee table. Rafa believes he sees Mirka moving in Roger’s direction but he doesn’t bother to make sure. Instead he smiles at the kids who all look so much like Roger it takes his breath away, every time. It’s been a while since he last saw them and even longer since he spent time with them. They seem very determined to recount their afternoon to him, all speaking at the same time and interrupting each other.

“Stop,” Rafa says, laughing. “I don’t understand nothing, no? You start,” he points at Myla.

“Come on,” Roger says, before Myla can launch herself into her story. “There’s lemonade here, let Rafa breathe. You can tell him everything he needs to know about your afternoon later.”

This time, Rafa does glance toward the kitchen, only to find out that Mirka isn’t here anymore. She’s probably gone to her room. Rafa should leave too.

“You do not want to drink the lemonade?” he asks Myla.

The boys and Charlene have abandoned him to go get their drink but she didn’t move. She shakes her head no in response, frowning.

“Okay,” Rafa says. He tries again, “You remember the Spanish word I teach you last time?”

He has more success with this question. “Yes,” she says, brimming with enthusiasm. Then, enunciating with care, “Ho-la.”

“Very good,” Rafa says, smiling. “Much better than your dad.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad,” Roger replies and Rafa tilts his head back to see that Roger is leaning against the kitchen counter, on the side facing the living room, his eyes fixed on them. His voice is even but the way he’s looking at Rafa is pained, almost anguished. Like this is breaking his heart. Right.

“I need to go,” Rafa says, standing up. There’s a sharp burn in his knee that he ignores, hoping his face doesn’t show anything. “Is late,” he adds to halt any objection Roger might have. He can’t do that. Not tonight.

Roger must sense it because he doesn’t insist. “Fine” he says. “I’ll call you a car.”

Rafa nods in response, grateful and relieved, and goes say his goodbyes to the kids.

***

Once in the car, Rafa rests his head against the window, thinking back to his talk – he isn’t sure he can call it a fight – with Roger. It feels like it’s been nothing but a variation of all the ones they’ve had in the past months, except for this one confession, _you regret it? – no._ They’re stuck. They’re stuck and, no matter how many times they try to confront it, they can’t find a way out of it. Maybe it’s because they haven’t had the courage to follow this conversation until its very end, too afraid of where that might lead them. Maybe it’s because there is no way out.

On the other side of the window, the buildings are getting taller the closer they get to Manhattan, to Rafa’s hotel. To Rafa’s other life. The one where Roger has to be defined as a colleague, a rival. As someone who has never whispered, _I love you, I love you, I am so fucking crazy about you,_ in Rafa’s ear – as if he would go mad if he didn’t say the words, if Rafa didn’t hear them. The one where Rafa has a girlfriend. The one where he forces himself to smile at various events, under the lights of dozens of photographers taking pictures, his fingers not quite able to close all the way around Mery’s waist.

And the thing is, it’s not enough. Rafa has refused to consider it until then, had interrupted Benito when he’d started saying, _it’s not him he’s hurting when he does that, _but it’s been more than six months since that phone call; Rafa has tried everything he could and yet they’re still here. Stuck. So, when the thought forms in his mind he doesn’t dismiss it, he doesn’t shut it down. He lets it grow and grow until he can’t escape it. Until he has to admit it.

It’s not Roger who’s the problem. It’s never been. It’s Rafa.

Rafa, who’s always been so much more vulnerable to rumors, who’s always been a target, who’s always had to be so careful. Roger could continue to push the way he has since Prague, could maybe even cross the line and no one would make anything of it because he has a wife and children and he loves them. Rafa, though. Rafa only loves Roger.

During all those months, he had been trying to get Roger to talk about it so that they could make a decision, find a solution, but he was wrong. He’s the one who needs to decide. Who needs to fix this. Except now is not the time. His first match is the day after tomorrow and there are still tendrils of pain in his knee, his leg. _After_, Rafa promises himself as they park in front of his hotel. After the season is over. That’s when he’ll decide.

He gets out of the car and takes in the rush of noises and smells that are inherent to New York, before stepping inside the lobby. A member of the staff welcomes him back, asking him if he’s spent a nice afternoon. Rafa thinks about Roger not quite yelling, _they’ve been taking pictures of us for the past fourteen years_, about Roger’s desperate, searing kisses, about Roger watching him laugh with his daughter as if it were the most painful thing he has ever seen.

“Yes,” Rafa says, smiling bright. “Thank you very much.”

***

The pain flares up again during his third round match against Karen.

Rafa still manages to play in spite of it and makes it to the semis, winning lengthy, grueling matches against Basilashvili and Dominic. But it can’t last forever and he ends up having to retire during the semifinal. It hurts. Because it’s the second slam he has to retire from this year. Because he wanted to defend his title. Because he felt he had his chances to do so.

After, he stays in New York for a couple more days. Roger chose to stay too, after his defeat, instead of going back to the Hamptons and wait there for the start of Laver Cup. There are no more attempts at talking things through, though. They seem to have reached a tacit understanding that it’s no use, that they’ve gone over things as many times as they could and it didn’t solve anything or did any good. Or maybe Rafa is imagining it and nothing has changed except his view of the situation. Not that it matters. It’s enough for him to get as much of Roger as he can before they have to part.

And then it’s back home. He goes to Cannes for the yacht festival and watches Spain lose the Davis Cup tie from far away. He doesn’t follow what’s happening in Chicago. There’s golf going on and, in truth, he’s not sure he could bear it. The only updates he gets come from Roger’s texts and one quick call because he’s too busy to call every day. Rafa doesn’t blame him; he was there, after all. He remembers how time-consuming those three days are and the time difference doesn’t help.

He doesn’t think it’s been a year since they played doubles. Since Prague.

Rafa officially withdraws from Beijing and Shanghai and the tour goes on without him. When the floods happen he is, for once, relieved to be home and not playing tennis, on the other side of the world. It rains and rains and rains and, for four terrifying hours, it looks like it might never stop. But it does and the aftermath is even worse. Rafa has to deal with the kind of powerlessness that you only experience a few times in your life. It’s akin to the one he had felt when he had learned that there was something wrong with his foot and that his career might be over although it had barely begun. Or when his father had told him, _me and your mother want to get a divorce_. When the ground beneath your feet seems to suddenly open and you need to find something, anything to hold on to so it won’t swallow you whole. Except, this time, people died. People close to Rafa’s loved ones, people Rafa _knew_.

Rafa does what he can - he opens up the academy for those seeking refuge, he goes help clean Sant Llorenç, he donates money.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger says from Shanghai. “Is there anything I can do?”

Rafa knows what he wishes Roger could do. He wishes Roger could come here and be with him. That he could lean on the most important person in his life when he needs it. He wishes that there weren’t thousands of kilometers between them, that they didn’t have to keep pretending everything is fine when their world is crumbling, that they didn’t have to always, always smile.

“I’ll make a video,” Roger continues when Rafa doesn’t answer. “Something to show that I’m with you.”

If there is someone who hates feeling powerless even more than Rafa does, it’s Roger. So Rafa answers, “Yes. A video is a nice idea, I think.” He lets out a sigh. “Maybe we try doing an exhibition match in December, I don’t know yet.”

He hasn’t had any time to recover, let alone make plans.

“Anything you need,” Roger promises. They both know he’ll be in Dubai in December, but Rafa gets what he’s attempting to do and he replies, “Thank you.”

_I’m sorry_, Roger is telling him. _I’m sorry I can’t be there for you_.

Rafa eventually goes back to training. It’s a long shot but he wants to try and be ready for Bercy and, even more so, for London. A few days before going to Paris, it feels like there’s something wrong with his ankle. He consults his doctor and learns that there is, in fact, something wrong. It shouldn’t be bad enough to prevent him from playing the last two tournaments of the season, though, so Rafa leaves for Paris.

***

Paris in November is quite different from Paris in June. It’s cooler and greyer and the soft breeze blowing on spring days has morphed into a cutting kind of wind. One that makes its way under your clothes and seems to turn your bones into ice. Even the rain is different. Rafa dreads the heavy summer storms but, after, the city always has this particular smell, like it’s been washed and reborn again, like everything is possible. The autumn rain, though, is just cold and wet.

Despite the weather, Rafa is happy to be here. To be training with other players. To feel like his life is moving forward again. Then, late on Sunday night, when Rafa is already in bed and about to go to sleep, Roger calls.

“Am I waking you up?”

“No,” Rafa says. He muffles a yawn. “But I think I go to sleep very soon.”

“Sorry,” Roger says. “I wanted to call sooner but you know how it is. Press, eating pizza with the ball boys…”

Rafa smiles. “I know. Congratulations on the win.” He’d sent a text earlier, anticipating that Roger wouldn’t have the time to call him tonight, but now that they’re on the phone, he figures it doesn’t hurt to say it a second time.

“Thank you. That’s not why I’m calling, though.”

“No?”

“No.”

He’s smirking. Rafa knows he is. “Roger... Is past midnight and you are calling me. Just tell me, no?”

“I…” There’s a slight hesitation. It’s odd, considering how pleased Roger sounded a mere moment ago. “I’m coming to Paris.”

“This is for another champagne event?” Rafa asks, a bit confused.

Roger barks out a laugh. “No, not this time. I’m coming to play Bercy. Well, officially I’ll be coming to practice and see if I want to play or not. But I think I will.”

“Oh,” Rafa breathes. “And not officially?”

“Well, unofficially I’m coming to see you.” A pause. “If that’s okay.”

Before New York, Roger wouldn’t have asked. He would have called Rafa once he was already in Paris to announce his presence, or maybe he would have found a way to wait for him in his hotel room. Because that’s how Roger deals with not being able to give Rafa the things he believes Rafa should have. By doing bold, romantic gestures, thinking little of the consequences they might have. Rafa never used to mind. It was hard to, when he wanted nothing more than to bask in Roger’s love. Now, he can’t help but wonder if this is one of those things they’ll eventually have to pay for too. But there’s this weird sensation in his ankle, the faint pain he’s been feeling in his abdominals for the past few days. The fact that he has no idea if he’ll be able to play London.

“For sure,” he answers. “Is okay.”

“Oh good,” Roger says, the relief in his voice unmistakable. As if he’d actually been expecting Rafa to say no. Rafa hates it. “I’ll be there on Tuesday morning.”

Two nights, then. Two nights and he won’t have to go to sleep alone. Two nights and he’ll have Roger’s hands on him again, Roger’s body against his.

Two nights and the city won’t be so cold anymore.

***

On Wednesday, when it turns out that the pain in his abdominals could become much worse if Rafa tried to play and he has to withdraw - and end his season - he’s very glad he told Roger to come. Roger’s match gets cancelled too, though not because he can’t play, and they decide to spend the evening locked inside Roger’s hotel room. Roger tells him in passing that Mirka will be arriving the next day and Rafa doesn’t ask further questions because it’s long been settled between them that the way Roger chooses to deal with the different aspects of his life is his.

“I see that you’ve officially left Paris,” Roger says. They’re sitting on the sofa, Rafa curled against Roger’s side, his legs thrown over Roger’s. Roger is massaging Rafa’s neck with one hand, the other holding his phone. Rafa is so comfortable he could fall asleep like this.

“Hmm?” he mumbles, unwilling to lift his head up from where it’s resting against Roger’s shoulder.

Roger shows him his phone. He has Rafa’s instagram open, the latest post a picture of him in front of his hotel. Benito must have posted it. “Yes,” Rafa says, voice even. “Maybe you are talking to a ghost.”

“Well,” Roger’s hand leaves Rafa’s neck to slide under his t-shirt, squeezing Rafa’s bicep. “That seems pretty real to me.”

At that Rafa wriggles, giggling. “Stop. Please.” 

Roger complies and releases Rafa’s arm, his fingers trailing down Rafa’s forearm to encircle his wrist, rubbing against his pulse point. “You want to watch a movie?”

Rafa shrugs. “Sure.”

He doesn’t really care as long as he gets to stay like this, against Roger. He lets Roger pick what to watch without complaining or going through their usual round of arguing - because Roger has awful taste in movies and can’t be trusted - and only emits a sound of protest when Roger moves to get hold of the remote. Roger throws him a curious glance but doesn’t say anything. Rafa is being clingy, he’s aware of it, but he can’t bring himself to tone it down.

Tomorrow he’ll leave. Because he needs to get his ankle examined again, because Roger has to play tennis. Because this is how their lives work. It would be fine, it would be nothing more than two long months to bear, if not for Rafa’s promise to himself. _After._ And it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t taken his decision yet, there’s the fear lingering in his veins that, the next time they see each other, everything will be different.

“Everything okay?” Roger asks, nudging Rafa’s shoulder when it becomes clear that Rafa isn’t paying attention to the movie at all. He doesn’t even know what they’re supposed to be watching.

“Yes,” Rafa says. The way Roger looks at him is both soft and very tender and Rafa chokes up a little. “I love you.”

Roger smiles, slow and bright. “Is this a way of finally admitting I have great taste in movies?”

“No,” Rafa laughs. “I never say that.”

“I love you too.” Roger’s tone is still light and playful and it’s been a while, Rafa realizes, since Roger’s told him those words without them being tinged with sadness and something heavy. As if they had become a weight, rather than the gift they used to be.

Rafa takes in a breath and shifts slightly so he can slip his hands under Roger’s t-shirt and against his warm, warm skin. He gazes at the screen, for the first time since the movie started, and tries to focus on it. He must fall asleep soon after, though, because the next thing he remembers is Roger waking him up. He’s standing in front of Rafa, his palms cupping Rafa’s face, one thumb caressing Rafa’s cheekbone. “Come on,” he says. “To bed.” He steps back and lets go of Rafa’s face, offering him one hand instead. Rafa takes it without protest.

Once under the covers, Rafa glues himself to Roger’s side again, his head in the crook of Roger’s neck, their legs entangled. “Sorry I fall asleep,” he whispers.

“It’s fine,” Roger says, just as low. “Guess I’ll have to wake you up early tomorrow.”

Rafa smiles but doesn’t reply. He kind of wishes he could get even closer to Roger, get inside him, under his skin, but he can’t. So he takes one of Roger’s hands in his and brings it up to his chest, placing it against his heart. Then, he shuts his eyes. _This is not a goodbye_, he repeats to himself as he attempts to go back to sleep. Like a strange, distorted lullaby. _This is not a goodbye._ But it does feel awfully like one.

***

The day Roger loses his semifinal against Sascha, Rafa gets on a flight for the Bahamas.

It’s only him, his parents and his sister, for which he is thankful. He likes Mery, they’re friends - which is why they had asked her to do it, at the very beginning - but if she was here, Rafa would have to pretend. It wouldn’t matter that he doesn’t want to. People would smile at them knowingly, expecting Rafa to smile back. They would treat them as a couple and expect Rafa to respond in kind. Rafa can’t do it. Not after the year he’s had. Not when he’s so close to doing something he had hoped he’d never have to do.

Alone with his family, there is no pretence and, for a week, it’s a string of lazy days spent golfing, out on the boat, fishing or lying on the beach. They have dinners that last well into the night, they speak and laugh and, if there’s the slightest, unusual distance between them and Rafa, no one remarks on it. His ankle, which he ended up having to get operated, is still healing and it’s not so surprising that it should weigh on his mind.

If asked, Rafa couldn’t explain why he doesn’t tell them about his dilemma, about Roger. It’s not like Roger is a taboo topic, even though it’s one Rafa keeps close to his heart. Truth is, he could seek their advice and they would give it to him, gladly. Or he could just talk about it and they would listen which is sometimes better than any advice. But he doesn’t. And when Pico comes, for a couple days, he doesn’t talk to him about it either.

It’s a decision he has to make on his own.

The sunset on their last evening is particularly beautiful. The red and gold sky seems to merge with the water until it almost looks like the sea is on fire. Rafa takes a picture of it and sends it to Roger. A few seconds later, it’s his turn to receive a picture of a beach. The sky in it is blue, with the faintest traces of pink and, right, it’s already tomorrow in the Maldives. Rafa puts his phone back in his pocket and smiles as the sun disappears from his view, taking solace in the knowledge that, somewhere on the other side of the world, Roger is watching it rise. And, despite it all, Rafa is forever grateful that they exist under the same sky.

***

One night, at the beginning of December, Rafa finds himself unable to sleep. He doesn’t have to guess why - today was his first day back to practice. It will be a slow process, it always is, but his ankle responded well and there was no significant pain in his abs or his knee, which means he can start thinking about the next season in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to before. Which means it’s time to choose. He’s delayed it for as long as possible but he can’t any longer, not if he wants to keep his promise.

Instead of lying in bed, ruminating, Rafa does what he sometimes does during sleepless nights - he goes to the academy. At this hour, there’s no one outside and Rafa can’t help but love it, the feeling that it’s his and his only. He wanders, letting his steps guide him, and ends up sitting on the stands, gazing at an empty court below him. It’s the one where he often practices before the hard court swings. The one where Roger had kissed him, a bit more than two years ago, when he had come for the opening of the academy.

There are some days in your life that stay with you, bright and luminous, and that never lose their shrine, no matter how much time passes or how dim things get. The opening of the academy was one of those. It’s still all so clear in Rafa’s mind. How anxious he had been at the idea of showing his lifework to Roger. How Roger had had to more or less invite himself because they weren’t exactly what they used to be and because Rafa was all too aware that one wrong word from Roger would be enough to break his heart. How stupid his fears had seemed once Roger had arrived, because he had been more than impressed by it - he had fallen in love with it.

They had stood together in front of a crowd, like they had done so many times, yet everything was different. They weren’t battling or trying to best each other. They were celebrating the future, one Rafa had envisioned. Rafa had got it then, why it was so important to Roger to be there despite how uncertain things were between them, why he had insisted so much and for so long. This was his gift to Rafa. A way of saying,_ if I can’t give you anything else, at least I can give you this. I can be by your side on one of the most important days of your life._

And Rafa had smiled and smiled and smiled.

Later, long after everybody had gone and Roger was supposed to have left too, they had kissed on that court, their first kiss in what seemed like forever. It had been kind of awful because Rafa couldn’t stop smiling long enough to do it properly and neither could Roger. Rafa had been so drunk on love and happiness he had wondered if it wasn’t too much. If he wasn’t risking exploding from sheer joy. He had told Roger that and Roger had laughed and answered, _I’m sure you’ll be fine_, and, _I will make you even happier, I promise_. In that moment, Rafa hadn’t doubted he would. Even later, in Rafa’s bed, Roger had sucked bruising kisses against Rafa’s skin, had whispered _I have missed you so fucking much_, had licked him open, taking his time until Rafa was half-mad with want. Had fucked him oh so slowly, giving Rafa one of the most earth-shattering orgasms of his life. Later still, sweaty and a bit disgusting yet refusing to let go of the other, they had joked about it for the first time.

(“So, who do I have to send my application to if I want to teach here?”

“You send it to me, no?”

“Is it a problem if I don’t speak Spanish?”

“You learn. Or maybe you have to corrupt me.”

“Oh, I’ll corrupt you.” )

Now, it’s colder out there than it was during that October night and Rafa can’t help but shiver as he takes his phone out of his pocket. There’s one last thing he needs to make sure of. Heart beating fast, fast and fingers shaking slightly, he texts _you are serious about teaching at the academy?,_ and waits. It must be very early in Dubai but either Roger was already up or Rafa’s message wakes him, because the answer almost comes right away. _Yes. _

Rafa stares at the empty court in front of him, at the vast, starry sky above him, weighing his options. This one thing to help fix all that has gone wrong since Prague. This one thing in exchange for a future with Roger, here, on his island. This one thing that will hurt Roger more than anything else Rafa could do. This one thing. Rafa getting married. Their way out.

In the end, it’s easier than Rafa had imagined it would be. He inhales, texts Benito, _call me tomorrow,_ slips his phone back in his jeans and exhales. He should move. He should go back home. But he stays right where he is. And it’s not a sacrifice, he tells himself, as the night surrounding him keeps getting colder and colder. It’s not a sacrifice.

It’s a gift.

***

Rafa doesn’t sleep well. He keeps waking up, gasping, mind clogged with anxiety and the echoes of dreams he can’t quite remember. Some time after seven he gives up on sleeping and decides to have breakfast while waiting for Benito to call. But once seated at the breakfast table he can’t bring himself to eat anything. His gaze keeps bouncing between his phone in front of him, opened on Roger’s text, on that simple _yes,_ and the view of the sea on the other side of the window. It’s calm and endless, carrying a promise of freedom, and staring at it helps settle his nerves a little. It always does. When the call comes in, when Benito says, _you wanted to talk to me?_, Rafa is ready and he doesn’t waver.

“I’ll do it. The other solution you were talking about. I’ll do it.” He can’t pronounce the words out loud but it doesn’t matter.

There’s a pause before Benito asks, “Are you sure?” His voice is laced with concern but he doesn’t sound surprised. As if he’d been expecting it. Rafa isn’t sure what to do with that. 

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“Okay, then. When do you want to announce it?”

“I don’t know. Not before the Australian Open.” Rafa has to tell Roger first, and he can’t do that on the phone. He hates the fact that almost a whole month will have passed between him deciding and him letting Roger know but he can’t change how their lives work. If he could, he wouldn’t be having this conversation.

“Okay,” Benito repeats. “We can say that you got engaged in Rome. Eight months is a good length of time between the engagement and the announcement. And Rome is fine, no? Romantic.”

Rafa doesn’t answer. He’s not certain there is a question. “Is that okay with you?” Benito adds, when the silence starts getting heavy.

Rafa remembers Rome and the joy of holding the trophy in his hands. He remembers rushing back home to catch a few more hours with Roger, knowing that Roger would be there, waiting for him. That he had been waiting for him for a week. He remembers Roger whispering, _I miss Rome, _against his skin and a bright, sunny day, the blue waters of the Mediterranean glimmering in front of him. He remembers Roger’s arms around his waist and the smell of pine trees enveloping them.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“Good. Do you want it to be a spring wedding?”

“No.” That, at least, he’s sure of. “I want it to be in October. The 19th.”

“The 19th?”

“It’s a Saturday,” Rafa says, even though that’s not what Benito is wondering about. “I checked.” If he’s going to do this, it makes sense that it should happen on the anniversary of the opening of the academy. On this day, where he was so happy. Still, he doesn’t want to justify his decision.

“Fine. Do you want me to talk to Mery?”

“No,” Rafa scoffs, rubbing his temples. “Of course not. I’ll talk to her.”

“Do it today, yes? There’s no point in planning further if she doesn’t agree. And let me know as soon as it’s done.”

“Sure,” Rafa says. “If she… If she agrees, I don’t want to have to talk about it to the press. I don’t want to take care of anything. I’ll do it but I don’t want to do anything else.”

“You’ll have to go on a honeymoon, at least…”

“No.” Rafa can’t. “No honeymoon. Please, Beni. I’m doing it, it’s enough, no?”

Benito doesn’t push it. “Right, we’ll find a way to avoid the honeymoon.”

Rafa swallows. “After we announce it, I’m not avoiding Roger anymore.” It was a stupid idea anyway. “And I’m playing Geneva, if I’m healthy.” He hears Benito takes in a breath, so he adds, “It’s not negotiable. If I’m doing it, this is what I want.” He doesn’t say anything about Roger coming to teach at the academy. It’s too early for that. 

“Okay.” For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then, “Rafa… It’s the right decision. It’ll make everything easier, you’ll see.”

Rafa suppresses the urge to close his eyes, gazing at the sea again, at the rhythmic back and forth of the waves, barely discernible from this distance. “I’ll call you back later.”

“Tell Mery to call me if she needs to.”

Rafa lets out a noise that isn't quite approval but sounds close enough, before hanging up.

The right decision. Rafa doesn’t know it is, but there doesn’t appear to be any other. He thinks back to the lack of surprise in Benito’s voice when Rafa said, _I’ll do it_, to the way he seemed to have been planning this for a long time and can’t help but wonder if it was inevitable that he should end up here. If he had been an idiot to hope it could end any other way. That he could make it work, somehow, where everybody else had failed.

He’d thought Roger wanted too much, that it was tearing him apart but Rafa is no different. He can see that now. Except that, instead of a family, he had wanted to remain free.

Rafa averts his gaze. He can’t bear to look at the sea any longer.

***

The conversation with Mery goes more smoothly than Rafa has any right to expect. She comes to the house in the afternoon, after Rafa’s practice session, which was something of a mess because Rafa was so exhausted he kept feeling phantom pains in his ankle, his knee, his wrist and couldn’t hit his shots properly. They both sit on opposite ends of the sofa as Rafa exposes the situation. He doesn’t go into detail when it comes to how complicated the past months - the past year - with Roger have been but he tells her because she deserves to know why he changed his mind about this. Why, all of a sudden, he’s asking her to marry him.

(It hurts, just to think the words, and Rafa still can’t say them out loud. He avoids them by talking about the wedding. About this one, precise, defined event. It’s easier that way.)

“It won’t… It won’t change anything,” he says, although he has no idea if it’s her or himself, he’s trying to convince. “Things will stay exactly the same.”

“It’s fine,” Mery says. “I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, in a strange, distorted echo of the talk he had with Benito that morning.

“Yes.” She laughs. “I’ve been doing this for fourteen years. It’s like you said, it won’t change much.”

Much. It’s not what Rafa said, exactly, but it’s probably closer to reality. So he nods, squeezing her hand, and that’s that. They keep talking, for a little while, but Rafa has no recollection of what they say. Everything seems unreal, almost dreamlike. But it’s real and it’s Rafa’s life. After she leaves, he goes back to the sofa, curling against the armrest. He takes in the house, the living room which is so familiar he barely registers the decor anymore and wonders if he’ll have to move into a new house with Mery. Or pretend to. Rafa blinks. He takes out his phone, and only hesitates for a few seconds before calling Roger.

“Good evening,” Roger says. His voice is warm and low and something blossoms in Rafa’s chest. Something like relief.

“Good evening.”

“Everything fine?”

“I… Yes.” Of all the difficult conversations Rafa’s had today, this one is the hardest. He hates having to act like nothing has changed, like he hasn’t taken this huge decision that will affect them both. But he doesn’t have a choice. So he steels himself and goes on, keeping his tone as light as he can. “I have a good news.”

“Do you?”

“Is okay for me to play Geneva. If I am… If I am healthy.”

“Oh that _is _good news,” Roger exclaims. “I’ll let Tony know immediately, so we can announce it as soon as possible.” He sounds delighted and it’s easy to imagine him smiling wide, eyes almost shut. Rafa can’t help but smile too. It’s a testament to how excited Roger is that he doesn’t inquire further or wonders what Rafa had to negotiate in order to be allowed to play. “I can show you around the lake,” Roger continues. “You’ll love it, you’ll see.”

_I love you_, Rafa wants to answer. But he keeps it to himself.

“Rafa?” Roger prompts, when Rafa doesn’t reply.

“Yes, sorry. Just thinking about lakes, no?”

Roger laughs even though it’s not really funny and goes back to sketching plans of what they could do in Geneva. Rafa listens in silence, letting Roger’s voice wrap around him, its cadence familiar and soothing. That night, Rafa falls asleep to visions of mountains covered in white, of lakes so still the water reflects the sky, of Roger’s hand in his.

***

For the rest of December, Rafa doesn’t dwell on it too much. There are a couple of meetings, during which it’s decided that Mery should be there for the Australian Open and that they might have to go out on a public outing or two if they’re to make the announcement right after, but it’s nothing Rafa can’t handle. He also tells his family - which is more difficult because it makes it all so much more real. But his mother hugs him, and his father, and his sister, and his mum whispers in his ear, _we’ll be there for you, don’t worry_, and Rafa is infinitely grateful for them.

He spends a lot of time training, attempting to go back to where he was before the US Open, working on the new serve motion. In a way, this off season goes better than it did last year, when he came back from London unable to put any weight on his knee and had to wait for weeks before he could practice properly again. But he went there because he wanted to _try_ and it was his last chance to see Roger in a while and, even now, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

The official announcement that Rafa will pay in Geneva comes out and, a few days later, Roger calls him with his own good news.

“I’m playing clay,” he says. “Not all… Not all the tournaments but Paris, definitely, and I think Madrid.”

Rafa exhales, head spinning slightly at the knowledge that they won’t have to go through the long months of separation like they did this year and the year before.

“You really miss Paris?” Rafa says. It’s supposed to be a joke but it comes out more as a question.

“Yes,” Roger answers softly. “I do.” And, in case it wasn’t clear enough why he’s doing this, he adds, “I’ll be travelling alone for the most part.”

“Okay.” Rafa guesses it should be a bit scary, to be loved like this - but he doesn’t find it scary at all. On the contrary. “Good.”

At the end of the month, Rafa leaves for Abu Dhabi and Roger leaves for Perth. Sometimes they manage to steal a few days together, even a week, before the beginning of the season and sometimes they don’t. This is one of those times. It’s been almost two months since Paris, and Rafa is torn between missing Roger so much it’s suffocating and dreading the conversation they need to have.

So Rafa dismisses it from his mind for a tad longer. He plays one match in Abu Dhabi against Kevin and decides not to play more to avoid pushing his body. It turns out to have been the right thing to do when an MRI shows something on his left thigh, just before he’s set to start playing in Brisbane. He has no choice but to withdraw from the tournament, dully hoping it won’t set the pattern for the rest of the year, but stays in Brisbane where he continues to practice until he has to leave for the Fast4 exhibition match in Sydney.

Then, Melbourne.

***

The first two days, Roger is too busy with Rafa, with kissing him, getting him naked and reacquainting himself with his body, with telling him, _god I’ve missed you_, to notice that there’s something wrong. Rafa doesn’t doubt he will, though. It was one thing to hide it on the phone but it’s quite different in person and he’s always been awful at concealing things. Especially from Roger. Roger used to love that about him, how open Rafa was, how utterly transparent. _What do you keep for yourself?_ Roger used to ask him, fingers mapping Rafa’s unlined face, tracing the shape of his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the corner of his mouth. _You need to keep something for yourself, you know. _And Rafa’s answer was the same every time, although he didn’t say it out loud. _You_. _I keep you_. Nowadays, Rafa has become much better at hiding his thoughts and emotions behind a blank mask but when it comes to Roger he sometimes still feels like he’s eighteen, madly in love and in complete disbelief that Roger would want him. He still feels as clear and translucent as a winter sky. So, when it happens, Rafa is only surprised that it’s taken this long.

They’re in Rafa’s room - Rafa is in bed, looking at his phone and Roger is leaning against the windowsill, staring out of the window.

“What are you doing?” Rafa wonders, when Roger takes a few steps back, holding his phone in front of him.

“Taking a picture,” Roger answers. “It’s a nice sunset, you know. And a nice view. I should post it.” Rafa frowns. They’re staying in the same hotel, for once, and even though it could very well be a view from Roger’s suite, it’s still a bit… A bit dangerous. Roger sees it and adds, “No one will notice anything.”

Why do it then? Rafa almost asks. But he doesn’t need to. It’s for the chance, even the tiniest one, that someone might. Roger will never know for sure and it’s that uncertainty, that possibility, that’s guiding his actions right now.

“I don’t… I don’t have to do it,” Roger continues, sitting down on the mattress next to Rafa. He’s naked from the waist up and Rafa raises one hand to touch his collarbone, his shoulder.

“No,” Rafa says. After all, in a few days it won’t matter anymore and that’s the whole point, isn’t it? “Is fine.” But it happens to be the wrong thing to say.

Roger puts one hand on Rafa’s, linking their fingers together, and looks at him with a puzzled gaze. “Is everything okay? You’ve been…” He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to. Rafa understands all too well what Roger means.

He could blame it on the situation. Here he is, the first slam of the year about to start, and he’s only played one full match in four months. Or he could blame it on the fear that something might go wrong again: the pain in his knee flaring up, another recurring injury coming back, or one he hasn’t had to deal with yet stopping him in the middle of the tournament, like it did the year before. But he chooses not to.

“There is something I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” Roger says, with a worried expression.

“This is… This is a bad time, no? But after the tournament, I tell you.” It’s yet another compromise, Rafa is aware of it, but Roger is the defending champion - they can’t afford to have that conversation now. And they can’t afford not to have it.

“You are not breaking up with me, right?” Roger jokes, or tries to. It’s a little wobbly. “Because I am definitely winning that tenth Halle title this year.”

“Only if you also win in Basel,” Rafa says with a smile. “It is not… I am not breaking up with you.” He doesn’t add that, if anything, Roger might be the one doing the breaking up. “But this is not a good time.”

“Yeah,” Roger agrees. “I guess it’s not.” He puts his phone on the bedside table and lifts Rafa’s hand from where it was resting on his shoulder. Without disentangling their fingers, he brings it up against the bedrest and pins it there. “Okay?” Roger asks and Rafa nods in response.

Roger kisses him, then, and Rafa can tell right away that he hasn’t alleviated Roger’s fears at all. He kisses him exactly like Rafa loves to be kissed, like he needs to be kissed, sometimes. He kisses him as if to prove a point. That no one else can do this to Rafa, maybe - render his mind blank, quieten his brain, make him forget about the thousands of rushing thoughts that are always there. He doesn’t have to prove anything, of course, but there’s no use in telling him that. And there’s nothing Rafa can say to make Roger feel better because he _is_ going to hurt him, although not in the way Roger is expecting. So he opens his mouth further, makes his body go pliant under Roger’s hands and lets Roger take whatever reassurance he can, whatever reassurance he needs from him.

He doesn’t believe it works but he doesn’t have anything else left to offer.

***

(Roger does end up posting the picture. He captions it, _love it_, and Rafa imagines this is what drowning must be like. A seemingly endless fall and everything around you getting dark.)

***

Once again, they both make it through the first week.

Rafa plays much better than he expected, considering how late he started training and his lack of matches. They’re on the same side of the draw and Roger is often playing at night, which means that, most of the time, Rafa is out having dinner during his matches. Still, he seems to be doing well enough for the first week of a slam. This part is fine. It’s everything else that’s complicated.

The day before his third round match, Rafa gets papped having a public lunch with Mery. Even though he dislikes it, he understands the rules of the game and knows that there’s no way to escape it. What he doesn’t expect is to find Roger waiting for him in his hotel room when he comes back that evening.

They don’t do this. They don’t break the rules. Not unless they have no other choice. Yet, there’s no doubt that it’s Roger, in the armchair facing the door, face locked in a thunderous expression. As if it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to explode.

“Roger?” Rafa asks, taking a step in his direction but Roger shakes his head and raises one hand in the air. Rafa freezes right where he is.

Roger stands up, slow and careful, and closes the distance between them. Rafa believes he might kiss him but, instead, he kneels on the floor. Before Rafa really has time to register what’s happening, Roger has unzipped his fly and taken his cock out. He throws a quick glance at Rafa then, a silent question. Rafa nods and, for the first time since Rafa’s entered the room, Roger speaks.

“Don’t move,” he says and takes Rafa in his mouth in one, practised motion. 

So Rafa doesn’t. It’s hard - there is no wall to lean back on and he’s pretty sure that if he tried gripping Roger’s shoulders or neck Roger would stop immediately. Which Rafa doesn’t want. It’s barely been a week since he last had Roger’s mouth on him but he doesn’t think there’ll ever be a time when he doesn’t crave it, when it doesn’t drive him a bit mad. It’s warm and wet and Roger isn’t interested in making this last at all, sucking Rafa like he can’t imagine anything better, like there’s nothing else he cares about. His hands move away from Rafa’s thighs to grab his arse, pushing Rafa even deeper into his mouth, and Rafa comes and comes and comes.

Roger swallows it all before getting back up. This, whatever it was, doesn’t seem to have appeased him because his features are still etched into that dangerous expression. He presses one thumb against Rafa’s mouth and, when Rafa opens his lips, kisses him. It’s quick and harsh and over nearly as soon as it has begun. Then, without adding another word, Roger gets out of the room, leaving Rafa standing in the middle, half-naked and stunned.

Later, in bed, chasing an elusive sleep, Rafa realizes that Roger must have somehow learnt about the lunch date. It’s not… It’s not something that would usually bother him and his state of mind must be awful for him to break the rules in such a way, for such a small thing. Rafa takes hold of his phone on the bedside table and opens a text. He tries to come up with something to say, anything, but his brain remains blank. Empty.

The next day, they bump into each other in the players’ area while Roger is coming back from his third round match. Roger’s face is soft again, all traces of yesterday’s terrible expression gone from it, and he makes his way toward Rafa with his hand in front of him, like an offering. Rafa clasps it briefly and continues to walk.

***

Rafa is out having dinner with his team when Roger loses his match against Stefanos. He watched the first set before going out and has been following the rest of it on the livescores. Rafa looks at the final score again to make sure that yes, it is over and glances at his watch. It’s already past eleven and it will be even later after Roger is done with his obligations, but Rafa needs to go back to his room. Right now. He stands up, mumbles a feeble excuse and, even though he doesn’t think they believe him, they don’t prevent him from leaving - for which he is grateful.

Roger will come tonight. Of that, Rafa is certain. He has no idea how this conversation will go, if they’ll manage to come out of it and still be _them_, but he knows they’ll be having it. Once back in his room, Rafa starts pacing, too anxious to check his phone and see if Roger left a message. Unable to distract himself. He suddenly, irrationally wishes he had had more time with Roger. That he had been allowed to get more of him before doing this one, irreversible thing. It doesn’t matter, that he’s had almost fifteen years. It wasn’t… It wasn’t enough.

If asked, he couldn’t tell how long this wait lasts, just that it seems to stretch out forever. Until there is a knock on the door. 

Rafa stops pacing.

The door opens and Roger gets in, shutting it behind him. He leans back against it, crossing his arms in front of his chest, before meeting Rafa’s gaze. There are no greetings.

“Tell me,” Roger asks right away.

“I’m sorry,” Rafa begins but something in Roger’s stance prevents him from finishing his sentence.

“Tell me,” Roger repeats. “Rafa, please. It’s driving me mad. I feel… I feel like I’m losing you.”

It’s probably the worst thing Roger could have said to start this conversation but it doesn’t matter, does it? Rafa remembers a car ride in New York, admitting to himself that they were stuck. He remembers sitting still on the stands of a court in the middle of the night, deciding that there was, maybe, a way out. He can’t back down. Not now. So he doesn’t.

“I am getting married.” It’s the first time he says the words out loud. No more avoiding them. No more talking about the wedding only. It’s the first time he says the words out loud and they are _suffocating_. But he carries on. “With Mery.”

Roger doesn’t react immediately. He seems stunned, at first. Like he can’t process what Rafa is telling him. Like it’s beyond his comprehension. But then he gets it. Rafa sees it, the exact moment it hits Roger, because his face does something awful, something Rafa can’t describe. He believed he had seen every possible expression on Roger’s face. He’s seen him crushed in defeat - some of which Rafa was responsible for - and triumphant in victory, assured of his own place in the world. Of his own worth. He’s seen him devastated, telling Rafa _he_ was getting married, that they couldn’t go on doing this, and oh so amazingly happy, opening his arms to welcome Rafa jumping into them. But he’s never seen him like this. Like he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to draw a breath again. Like he isn’t sure he wants to.

“No.” His voice is flat, lifeless and it’s so much more terrible than him being angry. Rafa wants to apologize, to take it back but he_ can’t_. “No,” Roger says again. “Why?”

“Roger…” he tries but Roger isn’t listening to him at all, eyes fixed on the floor, as if he can’t bear to look at Rafa.

“Is it because of me? I’ll stop.” He sounds closer to begging than Rafa’s ever heard him before. “I can stop. I can get better.”

And Rafa had hoped he wouldn’t have to answer that question, that he wouldn’t need to lay it all out, but it was a stupid hope. He wishes he could avert his eyes too but he has to watch what he’s doing to Roger. To them.

“Is not you,” Rafa says. At that, Roger lifts his gaze up from the floor. He doesn’t appear to have been crying. As if he is beyond tears. “You are not the problem. Is me, no?”

“I never...” Roger stops. Breathes. “I never asked you to. I would never have asked you to. Never.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you talk with me about it before?”

“Because if we talk about it, you tell me not to do it, no?”

“And what if I tell you no, now?” Roger asks, with no hint of hope. Like he’s asking for the sake of it, already convinced of what Rafa will say.

Truth is, if Roger asked Rafa not to do it - not like he did earlier, in shock and almost unable to understand the situation, but after having thought about it - Rafa wouldn’t. There’s still time. The announcement hasn’t been made yet and no one but those closest to him is aware of the situation. Rafa could call Benito, tell him that he’s changed his mind, and that would be it. The first few weeks, months maybe, would be hard but he and Roger would eventually go back to where they were before. Roger would try to keep his promise and he would be more careful, for a time. They would continue to be distant in public. But it would only last so long. At some point, they would end up back right where they are, facing the same problem. They would find themselves at the same dead end. Roger knows it as well as Rafa.

Rafa shakes his head. “Don’t.” It’s so low, he barely hears his own voice. “Please.”

Roger hesitates. His lips start to form the words but no sound comes out. For a few seconds, they stay like this, suspended between two choices, two worlds, two different futures. Then, Roger swallows the words back and, instead of saying _don’t do it_, lets out a noise very close to a sob. It’s a horrible thing and Rafa wishes he could erase it from his memory.

“It would be… It would be easier if I thought you were doing this because you want a family. If I thought this is what you want.”

Rafa has no idea if he wants a family but if that’s what Roger needs to hear he’ll give it to him. Gladly. “This is what I want,” he answers, unwavering.

“Okay,” Roger says. He slides down against the door to sit on the floor. As if he’d managed to hold himself up for as long as the conversation was going on but, now that it’s almost over, he can’t find it in himself to do it anymore. “Okay.”

Rafa takes a few steps forward, careful to leave some space between him and Roger, and sits down too. He doesn’t reach for Roger. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, waiting. He wonders what anyone would think of them, should they see them like this. If they look ridiculous, Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, sitting on the carpet of a hotel room like lost children. Or if they just look like two ordinary people, in love and hurting.

“There is one thing I need to know,” Roger says, breaching the silence. “Can you… Will you answer me?”

“Yes.”

Roger takes in a breath. “If we could… If we could and I asked, would you?”

“Yes.” Rafa doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course.” And, until this moment, he had found a way to keep it together, telling himself again and again, _I am doing this is for us, for us, for us_, but he can’t any longer. “Of course,” he repeats, as his voice breaks.

Roger nods and they fall silent again but it’s a different kind of silence this time. They are both grieving the same thing.

Eventually, Roger speaks. “I should go. We’re leaving tomorrow.” He gets back on his feet and Rafa follows him, grimacing a little. Every part of his body aches - his throat, his chest, his very bones. He didn’t know that heartbreak could be like this. Roger extends one arm in Rafa’s direction, not quite meeting his eyes. “Here. Your card.”

Rafa takes it. He doesn’t let their fingers brush. “Can I… Can I call you?’

“I’ll call you,” Roger answers. “I need some time.” Which is the best Rafa could hope for, really. Roger opens the door but halts on the threshold. He looks exhausted. Old. Weary. “Good luck for the rest of the tournament.”

“Thank you.”

Rafa waits. He waits until the door has closed on Roger, until he can’t hear the sounds of footsteps in the corridor anymore, nor their echo. Then he sits down on his bed, buries his head in his hands, and cries.

***

It gets better.

When, after almost a week of silence - and Rafa can’t remember the last time they didn’t communicate in one way or another for so long - Roger texts him on the eve of the final. There’s nothing personal about it, it’s a generic _good luck _text, but it doesn’t matter. Rafa gets what Roger means with it. _We can start healing. Try to, at least. _

When, hours after the final, Rafa is back in his hotel room to pack his things and Roger calls him. Rafa’s fingers shake as he answers the call and, when he hears Roger’s voice, it feels like finally being able to breathe after staying underwater for too long. It’s an awkward, stilted conversation, the kind Rafa would usually hate but he doesn’t. He cherishes Roger’s voice in his ear, if colder than usual, his low tones, the familiar cadence of his speech and takes this call for what it is. An act of love. When they hang up, there is no promise of speaking to each other soon and that’s fine too. It has to be.

(The next day, before boarding the plane, Rafa texts Roger that the announcement will be published on Wednesday because he doesn’t want Roger to be blindsided by it. There is no answer to that text or to the following one.)

When, days after the announcement, Roger calls him again. _I… I still hate it and I wish things were different_, Roger says, _but I’ve decided that I can live with it._ The thing is, ever since the article was published in Hola, everything has been a bit awful and Rafa certainly wasn’t expecting it to be this hard. People are all so curious and thirsty for insignificant details Rafa couldn’t care less about and he wished it was over already. But every time he thinks about the eight months separating him from October, from it being done anxiety tightens his throat so he does his best not to. Of course, he doesn’t tell Roger any of that and replies, _thank you._

When, after coming back from his holidays but before he has to be in Geneva to launch the countdown to Laver Cup, Roger makes a stop in Mallorca. It hasn’t been that long, barely more than three weeks since Rafa’s hotel room door closed on Roger, but it seems like a lifetime ago. They don’t speak, when they first see each other. Rafa stares at Roger, gaze hungry and feverish and he doesn’t need a mirror to see how he looks - half-mad and desperate and oh so relieved. Every one of his emotions is reflected on Roger’s face. Then, Roger opens his arms and Rafa kind of stumbles into them, wrapping his arms around Roger’s back, his nails digging into the heavy material of Roger’s coat. He buries his face in the crook of Roger’s neck and holds him as tight as he can without hurting him. Roger does the same, one hand on Rafa’s neck, the other on the small of his back, pressing Rafa as close to his body as possible. Rafa sighs and his eyelids flutter shut. He wants to say _I’m so sorry _and _I missed you_ and _I love you_ but Roger kisses him before he has the time to voice any of that. It’s a terrible kiss - Roger has been crying and his lips are wet and they keep stopping to look at each other, to make sure that this isn’t a dream - but Rafa doesn’t mind. That’s when he knows they’ll be all right.

When, in Indian Wells, they practice next to each other not once but twice. Among all the council issues going on it’s a statement, one they couldn’t have made two months ago. But it’s also something else. It’s Rafa being able to smile at Roger in public for the first time in more than a year and feeling the weight he had been carrying on his shoulders ever since Acapulco, since that phone call at dawn, being lifted. The third day they’re supposed to practice next to each other, Roger doesn’t let Rafa leave the bed in time and they both have to cancel it. _You know_, Roger says later, _maybe we should get back on the council together. Help clean things up a bit_. Rafa is too stunned to answer and Roger continues. _You don’t have to decide now. But I think it would be a good idea_. Rafa doesn’t point out that, the last time they did this, it didn’t end well for them. Roger was there, after all, and if he’s asking it must be because he believes that they are strong enough now. _You are sure?_ Rafa still wonders. _Yes,_ Roger answers, kissing the tender skin of Rafa’s wrist, _I am_.

When, at the last minute, Roger decides to go to Rome. Rafa tries to convince himself that it isn’t all about him and how difficult things have been lately. That maybe Roger wants to play more matches on clay before Paris. That maybe he does miss Rome badly enough to come. Not just the pine trees but the atmosphere of the city, the ruins appearing almost out of nowhere at every corner of every street, the ever-present shadows of orange and ochre painted buildings. On Monday night, Rafa falls asleep with the windows wide open like he did a year ago except that he doesn’t have to imagine Roger’s fingers on his skin anymore, his hand curled in a loose fist above Rafa’s heart. Sometimes, life seems like a never-ending game of balance and you can’t gain some without losing some. So last year Rafa had trophies but went to bed alone and, this year, there have been no trophies yet but the man he loves is holding him while they’re falling asleep and _it’s fine_, Rafa thinks. He doesn’t move or let out any sound but Roger must sense something because he kisses the nape of Rafa’s neck and Rafa tears up a little. _It’s fine. _

When they have to face each other in Paris for the first time in more than a year and a half and Rafa does end up covered in clay, albeit because they had to play in a small hurricane. Roger ends up covered in clay too and, even though there’s no time to get anything off of each other’s bodies - Rafa has a final to prepare and Roger has to go home - the kiss they share in Rafa’s hotel room before Roger leaves is enough. Deep and thorough and making Rafa so dizzy he has to lean back against the wall. Roger lets out a laugh and Rafa glares at him. Or attempts to. Roger looks pretty unbothered. _You still have a bit of clay here_, he says, pointing at Rafa’s collarbone. _I need to get a second shower, no?_ Roger smiles. _Wish I could help but I have to go. Next year?_ Rafa nods. _Next year_.

When Roger, after winning his tenth Halle title, replies to Rafa’s congratulatory text with, _now you can never break up with me_. Rafa laughs and sends back, _only if you win Basel too_. He doesn’t linger on the fact that Basel is taking place the week after the wedding. In fact, he does his best not to think about it at all.

When they make love slowly one Sunday morning in Wimbledon, everything around them calm and peaceful. They have left the windows open and a faint breeze is lifting the curtains. They keep searching for each other’s mouth in an attempt to muffle any noise that might come out too loud but, for once, it’s not hard to keep it quiet. Not when there’s this thing clogging Rafa’s throat. Something akin to gratefulness.

When Roger asks him again about the council and Rafa says _yes_.

It gets better. Except when it doesn’t.

When Rafa gets hurt again, first in Cozumel, then in Indian Wells and it seems like it’s never going to end. That it doesn’t matter what he does or how much he tries, it always goes back to this - to him being injured. And it’s not so much the injury itself that’s exhausting him, but the thought of the next one, and the one after that. The knowledge that it will inevitably happen again. So Rafa withdraws from the tournament, texting Roger to let him know that there will be no semifinal. When they see each other, later that day, Roger says _I’m sorry _and _it was the right thing to do_ and _is there anything I can do to help, tell me_, and Rafa answers _no, is fine_. But it’s not.

When, at times, Roger gets this distant look on his face, like he’s very far away from Rafa. Rafa doesn’t have to ask to guess what he’s thinking about - he’s thinking about this other life. The one he imagines, at times. But he doesn’t attempt to share it with Rafa anymore. Rafa has closed that door in Melbourne more effectively than he ever intended to.

When journalists begin to speculate about Roger coming to the wedding and, once, even ask him. Although Roger shuts down the idea right away, it doesn’t stop the chatter, or the rumors. Rafa ignores them but Roger can’t help himself, he has to read and be aware of everything and, each time, it takes Rafa hours to kiss away the unhappy line of his mouth.

***

This year again, Roger stays in New York after his loss. Rafa makes it to the final and, even if it almost shatters him, wins the title. His 19th slam. He’s too exhausted to feel much except happiness, relief and a bit of incredulity. It’ll hit him later - it often does. As soon as he’s done with the obligatory press and photoshoots, he goes back to the hotel. There, he bids a quick goodbye to his family and his friends before Charly helps him pack his things and puts him in the car that will drive him to the airport. Where Roger is waiting for him.

“Sorry,” Rafa says once he’s ensconced in his seat. It’s an effort to keep his eyes open. “Took a bit longer than I expected, no?”

Roger laughs. “That’s fine,” he says, dropping a small kiss on Rafa’s forehead. “You were incredible.”

Rafa smiles but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have the strength to utter one more word. Instead, he lets his head fall on Roger’s shoulder, finally closing his eyes.

“Come on,” he hears Roger say. “Let’s take you back home.” 

In a way, though, Rafa already is.

***

Roger keeps his promise to show him around the lake. They wake up at dawn on Saturday and drive all the way to a spot Roger told him is beautiful, early in the morning. And he is right, it’s breathtaking. There’s no one but them and the still waters of the lake reflecting the wide, open sky and blue everywhere. It’s not the sea, it’s not the feeling of something spreading endlessly under your gaze, it’s something else. A sense of vertigo maybe. Rafa takes off his shoes and his socks before setting off toward the water.

“Are you sure about that?” Roger asks, a tad concerned.

“You tell me the lake isn’t cold, no?” Rafa replies. “I gonna check.”

“I said ‘not always’,” Roger yells after him and Rafa smiles. He puts one foot in the water, then another. When he doesn’t say anything, Roger speaks again, “So? How is it?”

Rafa turns around to face him. He’s standing on the bank, hands on his hips, looking both curious and worried. “Is very, very cold,” Rafa declares in his most sorrowful voice. “You were wrong.”

“Not always,” Roger repeats, indignant, “And, anyway, it’s late September. Of course it’s cold.” He seems ready to go on arguing but Rafa starts to laugh and, as always, Roger follows him. “Come back,” he adds, shrugging in defeat. “No need to freeze to death to prove your point.”

Rafa gets out of the water but doesn’t close the distance between them. The past three days have been… More than Rafa expected, really. He remembers Prague, of course he does, and how happy they were but this feels different. Maybe because it’s less of a surprise. Or maybe because they’re both conscious of the price they had to pay for this week and have every intention of making the most of it. So, although Rafa tries to leave some space between them when they sit next to each other, although he tries not to touch Roger too often, he’s probably not as careful as he should be. He can’t bring himself to care. Soon enough, they’ll be hurting again; there is no way to avoid it. Rafa doesn’t believe it’s too much to ask, that they should get to have this.

The air is incredibly pure, here, and Rafa draws in a breath. There was another morning, more than a year ago, when Rafa did something similar - bring Roger to a place that he loved. He hadn’t known, then, why he had chosen to show Roger the _cala_ when there were pine trees all over the island but he gets it now. He had wanted to offer Roger the sense of freedom he always felt when going there. Except Roger had said, _do you ever think about it? how it could be? _and Rafa’s heart had sunk.

“You remember the time I show you the _cala_? You wanted to tell me about this… this dream.” Rafa isn’t sure that’s the right word but it’s the closest one he can come up with. “And I tell you not today?”

“Yeah,” Roger says, puzzled. “Of course.”

“And the time in Ibiza, when I was dancing and I also tell you not today?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“You can tell me now?” Rafa asks. “If you want.”

It’s the one thing Rafa hasn’t given to Roger yet. The possibility to tell him about what they could be. To share this life he’s imagined, with Rafa. To open the door. Rafa didn’t think he ever would but if there’s a time to do it, this is it. When he’s so happy he can almost _touch_ it.

“Are you sure?”

Rafa looks back at the lake, then at Roger who is staring at him like he can’t quite believe what Rafa is requesting.

“Yes. Please.”

So Roger speaks, voice slow and pensive. “It starts... Well, I’m not sure where it starts. It’s not like there’s one story, you know? But I guess the one I think about the most starts with us getting married.” He glances at Rafa and Rafa nods, letting him know it’s okay. “We choose to do it in Mallorca, of course, but we keep joking about doing a second wedding, if Switzerland ever legalizes same-sex marriage. It’s a small ceremony. Just our friends and our families. My kids.”

Rafa doesn’t ask about Mirka. He’s not sure Roger has considered it and that’s probably the point of this. Reality doesn’t have to intrude.

“I buy the rings,” Roger says. “And the suits. I try to take you suit shopping, in the beginning, but you hate it and I know your measurements anyway.”

He does. There’s the suit Rafa wore on Wednesday. The one from Prague he kept and that still fits him perfectly.

“It’s a lovely day. And a lovely ceremony. I like to imagine that it’s not too hot, that there’s a gentle breeze coming from the sea. Because you wouldn’t want it to take place too far away from it. It smells… It smells like the south. Like pine trees. After, we have dinner in your garden. Our garden. It’s still a lot of people for one garden and it’ll be a mess the next morning but we don’t really care.”

It’s so easy to conjure up the scene Roger is describing. And it hurts to think that it’s so close, yet forever out of their reach. Rafa had never doubted it would. He had never doubted it would break his heart. But he asked and he has to listen.

“We decide to go to Lisbon for our honeymoon.”

“Lisbon?”

“We’ve never been there together,” Roger explains. “I think it would be nice.”

“Okay,” Rafa nods. “Lisbon.”

Roger resumes his story. “In the mornings, we eat _pasteis de nata_ in one of the gardens, sitting on a bench, before we spend the day exploring the city. When you get bored with the touristy stuff, we walk down to the Tagus River. It’s huge and windy because the ocean is very close. And there’s this sharp, salty smell, you know, one that the Mediterranean doesn’t really have. At night,” and Roger’s voice gets even softer, “at night, we go dancing, somewhere in Principe Real. That’s where the gay clubs are. You’re wearing your wedding ring but there’s always someone to try something, maybe when I go to the bar to buy our drinks. When I come back, I kiss you in front of everybody. Because I don’t want anyone to doubt that you’re mine and because I _can_. You laugh and tell me I’m being stupid but, truth is, you like it.”

Rafa would. He had imagined a similar scene, back in Ibiza, drunk and exhausted and wanting nothing more than for Roger to be there, next to him. Roger is here now but Rafa can’t touch him yet. Not until he’s done.

“We spend the night laughing and dancing. When we get back to our hotel, we’re a bit too tired and a bit too drunk to have sex but it’s fine. We fall asleep on top of the sheets, holding each other, thinking that we’ll have the rest of our lives to have long, lazy sex. Or just the morning after.”

Roger stops talking and, when he doesn’t start again, Rafa walks the few steps separating them. He’s still barefoot and the grass is kind of damp beneath his feet but he doesn’t mind. He takes Roger’s hand in his, intertwining their fingers. There’s one last thing he needs to know. “We are happy?”

Roger lifts their hands up and kisses Rafa’s ring finger. Rafa’s smile trembles a bit.

“As happy as two people in love can be.”

***

On the drive back to Geneva, Roger talks. He talks about the competition and the day to come, going through the various possible scenarios, about their doubles match tomorrow if Rafa’s wrist manages to hold on until then. Rafa interjects a word here and there but mostly lets Roger carry the conversation, content to listen to him, to admire the landscape now that he isn’t half-asleep anymore. The lake on one side of the road and, on the other, mountains covered in trees.

“Okay?” Roger asks, breaking Rafa’s contemplation and he realizes that it’s been a while since he last commented on what Roger is saying.

“Yeah,” Rafa says. “Is very beautiful here, no?”

“It is,” Roger replies, pride lacing his voice. “You know you can still come live here, right? It’s not too late.”

“No, no,” Rafa laughs. “Too cold. And you don’t have an academy.”

“Well then,” Roger shrugs. “Guess we’ll stick with me coming to teach at yours.”

Rafa tilts his head towards him and sends him a warm smile. “Yes,” he says. “We do that.” It’s so far away still, this possible future, that Rafa can’t quite envision it. Most of the time, though, it’s enough to know it’s there, somewhere ahead of them.

There are more immediate things preoccupying Rafa.

In a few weeks, Rafa will stand in front of a priest who will ask him if he wants to bind his life to someone who isn’t Roger. And, when he does, there will be another question lingering at the back of Rafa’s mind. _Is it worth it?_

To both, Rafa will answer yes.


End file.
